


Lucky in Love

by dr_girlfriend



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: #Make Clint Cry 2019, A Little Gentle Dominance Stuff Maybe?, Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Ambiguous Cuddling, Body Worship, Circus Veteran! Clint Barton, Crying During Sex, Deaf Character, Deaf Clint Barton, Edging, Fluff, Fraction/Aja Comic-based Clint Barton, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, I Dunno Maybe a Little Praise Kink?, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Gonna Tag Every Sex Act Just Trust Me There's Plenty, Oh my god they were roommates!, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression, Romance, SHIELD Veteran! Clint Barton, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Touch Aversion, Touch-Starved, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, What Can I Say the Winterhawk Crowd Are Dirty Enablers, meet cute, meet ugly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2019-09-30 19:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 59,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17230013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_girlfriend/pseuds/dr_girlfriend
Summary: Clint is only a couple of sips into his cardboard cup of coffee, his brain barely out of neutral,  which is probably why it takes him so long to realize that some damn psycho istrying to kidnap his dog.Excerpt:“I’m not some charity case,” Bucky says pugnaciously.“I didn’t think you were,” Clint answers back readily enough. “I mean, I can tell you’re fucked up for sure, but of the two of us, I’m probably the bigger disaster. My sleep schedule is shit, and I drink coffee straight from the pot. I sing in the shower even though I’m deaf as fuck. I have arrows everywhere because I’m an archer — did I tell you that? And I was raised in a literal circus, so I’m not exactly domestic. Let’s see, what else?” He squints down at the ground, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, yeah, I won the building in a poker game with the Russian mafia and every once in awhile they show up and try to take it back, but usually I handle it, no problem.  Uh...”Clint happens to looks up and Bucky’s eyes are wide, his mouth hanging open. Clint’s hand freezes where he’s rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly embarrassed. Yeah, when you put it all out there at once, it doesn’t sound so good.





	1. Aw, Coffee, No

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lissadiane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lissadiane/gifts).



> This is ex-circus ex-SHIELD-agent Fraction/Aja comics-based but non-Avenger Clint, and war veteran but non-supersoldier non-HYDRA-assassin Bucky. The child abuse tag is for Clint's comic-canon childhood. 
> 
> Huuuge thanks to eeyore9990 for the beta of the first few chapters, and kangofu_cb for beta of the last few! All mistakes in the middle chapters are mine and mine alone.

[Lissadiane](http://lissadiane.tumblr.com/) is to blame for this in every way possible:

Clint is only a couple of sips into his cardboard cup of coffee, his brain barely out of neutral,  which is probably why it takes him so long to realize that some damn psycho is trying to _kidnap his dog_.

He hadn’t even intended to come to the park — had just planned to grab a cup of coffee and head back home — but Lucky had been so excited, bouncing around, that Clint let him lead the way to the park Clint hadn’t even known existed before the damn dog invaded his life.

So there he is, sipping his coffee even though it’s hot enough to burn his tongue, and he vaguely notices that Lucky is going apeshit over some guy on a bench, but the guy is petting Lucky so Clint feels safe in assuming he doesn’t mind.

And then all of a sudden, the man has Lucky in his arms — well, his one real arm and his one metal arm, and is this still a dream? because that shit’s _weird_ — and his long shaggy hair is shading his face and Clint’s lipreading is never up to speed first thing in the morning…

“### a row ####  ## ##### dog ### happened ### #### ###### ##### eye?” the man is saying — maybe even _yelling_ — and it’s sad that it’s only now that Clint realizes he forgot to put his aids in this morning.  Sunita at the coffee shop had just handed his usual over the counter without him having to say a word, and he had chalked up the swooshy street noises to his usual morning fog.

“What the fuck are you doing to my dog?” Clint snaps, suddenly 110% fully awake.  

“####  #### ##### _my dog_ ,” the man says, his face furious, and Clint doesn’t know what’s happening but the guy is holding Lucky tight in both arms, and that metal robo-arm looks like it might _hurt_ , and Clint does what he does best, which is making terrible impulsive decisions, and he hauls off and pops the guy a good one on the jaw.

It probably hurts Clint more than it does the guy.  The guy’s head only snaps back for a moment and then he’s staring at Clint, eyes wide and stunned, and Clint shakes his hand out and curses, glad at least that he hadn’t punched southpaw and risked his draw hand.  But he would have had to have dropped his coffee for that.

There’s a frozen moment where the guy and Clint just look at each other, as if they are both wondering the same thing — _did he really just do that?_ — but apparently the guy’s surprise is enough to loosen his grip, and Lucky’s happy squirming causes him to slide right down off his lap.

And then Clint is running, the leash tight in his grip, and he’s only tugging Lucky along for the first few steps before the stupid dog is woofing and bounding along at his side like he thinks this is the best game ever.

Clint risks one glance back and the guy is just standing there.  He doesn’t look mad anymore, he just looks — _lost_ — and his expression is almost enough to make Clint stop.   _Almost_. 

* * *

It’s not until they’re back home, the coffee half-sloshed over Clint’s left hand, the door locked securely behind them, that Clint sits on the couch, Lucky lolling all over his lap, and lets his mind work over what just happened.

He still feels a little shaky, the result of going from mostly-asleep to full-on adrenaline surge in about 0.2 seconds flat.  Not to mention the fact that someone had _tried to take Lucky away from him_. He pulls Lucky a little closer at the thought, putting up with more big, slobbery licks than he usually lets him get away with.

But, the more he thinks over what happened, cataloguing all the little details he didn’t have time to analyze at the time, the more confused he gets.

So what does he know?  

First of all, the guy didn’t look like the standard New York City park-bench crazy.  For all that his hair was shaggy, his face — a jawline that could probably cut glass, no less — had been clean-shaven, his clothes clean and well taken-care of down to the shine on his boots.  Not to mention that high-tech arm, because Clint doesn't know much about prosthetics but he had seen those fingers move just as smoothly as if they were real, and tech like that doesn’t come cheap.

And as for Lucky — well, Lucky was a great dog, the _best_ dog, but...he wasn’t exactly top of the list for any dognappers, you know?  He wasn’t a fancy purebred — the black market for one-eyed, slightly-gimpy scraggy-looking mutts wasn’t so hot.  And even if secretly Clint knew he would pay quite a ransom for Pizza Dog, the only people who knew he was rich probably knew enough about how he got rich to stay out of his way.  

In truth, though, the reason Clint even gives it a second, and then a third and maybe a fourth and possibly a fifth thought, is the expression that had been on that guy’s face as they ran away.  Because somewhere deep down, Clint knows the feeling that puts a look like that on your face. It’s the feeling after you’ve been gutshot but before the pain kicks in, the feeling of everything slipping away from you before your brain can even catch up with what’s happening.  The feeling you get when your only family leaves you for dead.

Clint curses, draining the last of the cold coffee, tilting his head back against the couch.  

 _My dog_ , the man had said.  And something about his eye, and...fuck.  FUCK. _FUCK._

Not something about a row, like he had thought at the time.  Dammit, Clint of all people should have known the way that word looks on somebody’s lips.  

The man had called Lucky _Arrow_.

Clint shoves to his feet, giving Lucky one last squeeze when he yips a complaint.  He slams through the drawers in his kitchen, digging through ancient soy sauce packets and takeout menus for places that had probably closed down years ago, and more fletching than even his kitchen drawers should hold.

Finally he finds it.  The collar is ragged, mottled with dark spots that Clint knows are Lucky’s blood.  He runs his finger over the engraved plate on the collar — ARROW — as well as the broken link where the tag with the owner’s information might once have hung.

Clint had assumed that the assholes he got Pizza Dog from had always had him, but maybe he was wrong about that.  To be honest, he should have thought about it before. Lucky was just too damn sweet to have been around those guys the whole time.  Somebody — somebody _else_ — must have loved him once.  And Clint has the sinking feeling that he just met the guy.


	2. Aw, Stealth, No

Clint would be the first to admit that maybe a typical reaction to finding out that your loyal pet might have some other family who desperately wants him back is _not_ to climb a tree.  But, doing the typical thing isn’t really in Clint’s wheelhouse, so he doesn’t worry about it too much.

Information-gathering, however, _is_ in Clint’s wheelhouse, and if that means climbing a tree at 4 a.m. to stake out a park bench, then that’s just what’s gonna happen.

He brings some coffee up the tree with him, and that keeps him good until about 7 a.m., but watching people stroll through the park is boring as fuck, and he hasn’t been sleeping so good lately, which is probably why he dozes off.

He wakes up thanks to a pigeon flapping right in his face, manages not to fall out of the tree, and looks down to see that the guy is already there, sitting on the bench, and...uh oh.  This guy is _fucked up_.

He’s got this numb-looking thousand-yard stare, as if the quiet park is overwhelming all of his senses.  A kid yells at the other end of the park and the guy flinches. He runs a shaking hand through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead.  Clint can see the sweat beading at his temples, his chest rising and falling more rapidly than it should. The guy has a coffee cup in his metal hand, and when a pigeon flaps its way onto the bench near his shoulder he startles and the cup crumples into nothing, coffee spilling everywhere.

Clint always sees better from a distance, and he can clearly see the man’s quiet curse on his lips, the fine tremor in his legs as he stands, picking up the plastic lid and throwing it and the crumpled cup into the nearby trash can.  The man wipes his metal hand on the leg of his jeans and then turns and heads out of the park, walking quickly despite the slight unevenness to his gait.

Clint waits until he’s sure the coast is clear and slithers down from the tree, shadowing the man through mid-morning pedestrian traffic as he walks about seven blocks.  The man keeps his metal hand in his jacket pocket, his shoulders hunched around his ears and his eyes glaring down anyone who gets too close.

Clint tracks him all the way to the stoop of an apartment block, the limp more pronounced as he makes his way up the stairs.  Clint lingers across the street, trying to see if he hits one of the buzzers, but the man pulls out a key fob instead, holding it to a panel at the door.  Then the man pauses. He turns, and across two lanes of traffic, he looks Clint directly in the eyes.

“Aw, fuck, what?” Clint mutters to himself, too surprised to even make a token attempt at ducking out of sight.  

The man just gives him a careful nod and then turns around, entering the building and closing the door firmly behind him.

Clint finds himself both embarrassed and reluctantly impressed. This guy _made_ him, and that was no easy feat.  Clint started picking pockets when he was eight — he knows how to tail someone without them noticing, how to disappear seamlessly into a crowd.

Who _is_ this fucking guy?

 _Well,_ Clint decides.   _The best way to find out is by asking._

* * *

Clint is already on the park bench when the guy arrives the next day, his third cup of coffee for the day clasped tightly in his left hand.  He sees the moment the guy spots him...that numb, vacant look suddenly sharpening, the grey-blue eyes intent for a moment before the guy blinks and his face carefully settles into a neutral expression.

He doesn’t hesitate, sitting on the other end of the bench next to Clint, regarding him steadily.

“Ya come back for another shot?” the guy finally says.  He’s smirking as he rubs his jaw, but this close Clint can see the shadow of a bruise against the pale skin, blue-purple mottling that might be mistaken for the guy having missed a spot shaving.

Clint, embarrassingly, feels himself flushing.  “I dunno, you gonna try to steal my dog again?” he fires back, and then almost immediately feels ashamed again as the smirk falls from the guy’s face, his expression shuttering.  

Clint realizes this is not at all how he planned on this going.  He pulls in a deep breath, and then huffs it out. “‘M sorry about that, by the way.”  

He taps the aid on the side facing the guy, watching his keen eyes dart to it and then back to Clint’s face.  “I didn’t have these in, and just saw you making a grab for the dog. Didn’t put it together until later.” Clint takes a sip of his coffee to brace himself, and then jumps right in.  “He usedta be yours?”

The man’s eyes seem to search Clint’s face for sincerity, and he must find what he’s looking for.  He pulls his phone out, and taps it a few times. He looks down at the screen for a long moment, his expression gone soft, before he blinks as if remembering himself and tilts the screen toward Clint.

If it wasn’t for the eyes and the jawline, Clint would have had a hard time mapping this guy’s face onto the one in the picture.  The guy in the picture is smiling, wide and bright and cocky, holding a big-eared, big-pawed puppy up against his chest with two healthy arms. His hair is short, carefully gelled and parted on the side like some kind of matinee idol.  Clint can make out the collar of a dress uniform behind Lucky’s outsized ears.

“Marines?” Clint asks, and the guy nods.  He seems to be saving all his words for a rainy day.  But Clint waits, sipping his coffee, and eventually it pays off.  

“Gave ‘em to my sister to watch when I got deployed, but he got out and ran off.  That was about two years ago. Thought he must be dead.” His voice is emotionless, but the thumb of his metal hand brushes gently over the head of the puppy on the screen, and Clint feels something in his chest go a little tight.

The guy’s eyes jump up to meet Clint’s, making him feel pinned in place by that stormy grey-blue gaze.  “Is he alright?” the guy asks. “He looked...hurt.”

Clint nods carefully, aware that this could all still go very wrong, twitchy as the guy is.  “He was hurt bad when I got him. He was with some…bad guys, and they beat him up, and kicked him into traffic.  But he’s good now. Lost the one eye, and limps a little, but it doesn’t seem to slow him down none. That was...probably more’n a year and a half ago, now.”

The guy nods again, and Clint gives him time to take it all in.

“I’m glad,” the guy finally says, to Clint’s surprise.  “I mean, I’m glad that you’re not the one that hurt him, and that he found a good place with you.”

Clint shoots the guy a look, but the guy just shrugs.  “I mean, you punched a guy for him, so that makes you okay in my book.”

Clint can’t repress his snort of laughter.  That’s the kind of practicality he understands.  “He’s done more’n that for me,” he just says.

They sit in silence for awhile longer, as Clint drains the last of his coffee.  Finally he stands, lobbing the cup without looking. It makes a satisfying rattle as it lands in the trash can.  

This could be the end of it.  He let the guy know that Lucky was safe and happy, and that’s more than most people would have done.  But something won’t let him just walk away. Christ, Nat would give him hell for being such a soft touch.

“I’m not giving him back,” he says sternly, just to make that clear.

“I wasn’t _askin’_ —” the guy starts, but Clint just talks right over him.

“— But we’ll be here same time tomorrow, if you wanna say hi,” Clint finishes.

“Oh.”  The guy’s eyes are wide again.  “Uh — yeah.” He seems to gain confidence as he talks, his jaw firming with determination.  “Yeah, that’d be great.” He manages a ghost of a smile, which just seems sad in comparison to the big, broad grin that Clint knows he was once capable of.

 _Soft touch_ , Clint thinks to himself, but somehow he can’t bring himself to feel bad about it.

“See ya tomorrow, then…”

“Bucky,” the man says, standing up and politely extending a hand as if they hadn’t met already with a punch to the face.  “Bucky Barnes.”

“Clint Barton,” Clint supplies.  And if the guy tries to break in and steal his dog back in the night, then that’s on Clint, but somehow he isn’t worried.  The man’s hand is warm and broad, his grip firm, and he was good to Lucky before Clint even knew him.

“See ya tomorrow, Dognapper,” he says, and this time the guy’s smile touches his eyes.

“See ya tomorrow, Haystack.”

Clint takes a moment to look visibly offended, running a hand through his disordered hair, just to make the guy smile a little wider.

Then he turns and heads home, not looking over his shoulder even though he feels those sharp eyes on his back until he’s out of sight.

 


	3. Aw, Jersey, No

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to anyone who lives in Jersey... XD

Clint wakes to Lucky snuffling at his neck, his phone alarm vibrating with an intensity that indicates it has probably been going off for awhile.

“Uuuuuuuuurrrrrggggghhhhhh,” Clint says to the universe.

It had been a particularly bad night, filled with nightmares of his dad stalking him and Barney through a shadowy circus-tent, blood-soaked images of Nat and Phil projected on the canvas walls all around him.  His subconscious mind is an _asshole_.

Clint drags himself out of bed, starting up the coffee pot, head down on his arms while he waits for it to fill.

He takes a couple of tongue-searing gulps straight from the pot, waiting for that sweet sweet caffeine to hit his brain, before he belatedly realizes that he must have set an alarm for some reason.

Oh, that’s right.  He rubs a hand over his face, and then looks at Lucky.

“Wanna go see Bucky?” he asks, feeling his own voice more than hearing it because he hasn’t put his aids in yet, and the dog goes _bananas_.

* * *

Lucky drags him right to the park, going straight to that bench like a homing pigeon, and if Clint wasn’t dumb as a box of rocks he probably would have realized before now that it’s because Bucky used to take him there.

He stands around awkwardly, sipping his coffee and pretending that he’s not getting a little misty-eyed as Bucky holds the squirming, slobbering dog on his lap, eyes squeezed shut tight like he can’t believe this is happening.

When Bucky gets his fill of snuggles and loosens his grip, Lucky starts bouncing back and forth between the two of them, until finally Clint sits down on the other end of the bench so that Lucky can spread out across both their feet, shamelessly soliciting belly rubs.

Clint reaches down for a stick, handing it to Bucky.

He clears his throat, just because he hasn’t spoken much this morning and definitely _not_ because he’s getting a little choked up at how cute Bucky and Lucky are together.  “C’mon, I wanna see what kind of distance you can get with that robo-arm,” he says.

Bucky shoots him an _I cannot believe you_ look, but he’s smirking all the same.  And apparently the robo-arm has both distance and accuracy, and Lucky goes galumphing off after the stick with a happy bark.

* * *

Turns out that Bucky is much less twitchy when he has something to focus on, and apparently Lucky, and maybe possibly Clint, fit the bill.

It also turns out that although Bucky is still stingy with words, when he does manage to get a few words out in a row he’s kind of a sarcastic asshole.  It’s pretty awesome.

Clint is content to sit on the bench, sipping his coffee and trading the occasional barb with Bucky while Bucky plays fetch with Lucky.  He hadn’t fully appreciated it before, but once Bucky settles down and looks less like he’s going to cut a bitch at any moment, he’s pretty easy on the eyes.

Lucky tires out before Bucky does, settling down at their feet again with a sighing huff.  Clint pokes him in the belly with the toe of his boot, wondering if he’s feeding him too much pizza.

“Well, I better get him home before I have to carry him,” Clint finally says.  “We could come by tomorrow, though, if you want?”

“Thanks, I...thanks,” Bucky says.  “But I —” His face is longing as he looks at Lucky.  “I shouldn’t let him get attached,” he finally says, his voice thick.  “I’ve been living with my sis, but she leaves for her residency in Baltimore at the end of the month.  Rent’s too high to stay in the city on my own, so I’ll probably be movin’ in with my ma for awhile,” he finishes with a grimace.

“Where’s your ma live?”  How bad could it be? Queens?  The Bronx?

“Plainsboro,” Bucky says grimly.

“Plainsboro,” Clint repeats dubiously.  “In New Jersey? _Jersey?!”_

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Bucky grumbles.  “My other sister settled down there with her kids, so my ma moved to be near her.”

“Jesus Christ, Bucky, no one who sounds as Brooklyn as you do should ever have to live in _Jersey.”_  Clint doesn’t want to examine it too closely, but the idea bothers him a lot more than he thinks it should.  “That’s just unacceptable.”

“Well, it’s not like I have a choice,” Bucky says, throwing the stick to the ground in frustration.

“Sure, you got a choice,” Clint finds himself saying.  “I got a place not far from here, Quincy and Tompkins. There’s a room you could have if you help me move all the boxes and shit out of it.”

“What?” Bucky says.

 _What?_ Clint asks himself, because did he really just say that?  But the more he thinks about it, the more he warms to the idea.

“Why not?” he asks, although whether he’s talking to himself or to Bucky he’s not entirely sure.

 _“Why not?_ ” Bucky repeats, his voice rising.  “Maybe because you know fuck-all about me?”

Clint shrugs.  “Lucky likes you.  He’s a good judge of character.”

Bucky’s looking at him like he’s crazy.  “You’re asking someone to move in with you based on a _dog’s_ opinion?  I mean, you haven’t even asked about the _arm!”_

Clint feels his face scrunching up in confusion.  “Do you _want_ me to ask about the arm?”

“I really fucking do _not_ want you to ask about the arm,” Bucky spits out.

“Well, then, _I’m not gonna,”_ Clint answers back, throwing his hands up in frustration, and that seems to leave Bucky at a loss for words.

Clint pulls in a deep breath, realizing that he is basically yelling at a virtual stranger on a park bench for not wanting to move in with him.  “Look, maybe it’s a stupid idea,” he starts, “but I have a lot of stupid ideas, and sometimes they work out. And Lucky likes you, and you’d still get to see him, and nobody should have to move out to _Jersey_ , I mean _Jesus_ —”

“I’m not some charity case,” Bucky says pugnaciously.

“I didn’t think you were,” Clint answers back readily enough.  “I mean, I can tell you’re fucked up for sure, but of the two of us, I’m probably the bigger disaster. My sleep schedule is shit, and I drink coffee straight from the pot.  I sing in the shower even though I’m deaf as fuck. I have arrows everywhere because I’m an archer — did I tell you that? And I was raised in a literal circus, so I’m not exactly domestic.  Let’s see, what else?” He squints down at the ground, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, yeah, I won the building in a poker game with the Russian mafia and every once in awhile they show up and try to take it back, but usually I handle it, no problem.  Uh...”

Clint happens to looks up and Bucky’s eyes are wide, his mouth hanging open. Clint’s hand freezes where he’s rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly embarrassed.  Yeah, when you put it all out there at once, it doesn’t sound so good.

“What.  The. _Fuck.”_  Bucky says softly.

He stands, and Clint figures this is probably it.  He’s scared him off, and probably for good reason. Lucky is awesome, but maybe not worth putting up with —

“ _This_ I gotta see,” Bucky says.

* * *

Bucky thinks that Clint Barton may in fact be the strangest person he has ever met, and that’s a pretty fucking high bar.

Since Bucky got hurt, everyone in his life treats him as if he’s going to shatter to pieces at any moment.  His ma can’t look at him without tears in her eyes, Steve gets this hangdog _look-what-I-did-to-you_ expression every time they videocall, and even Becca is constantly worrying over him, trying to get him out of the house and back to some semblance of normal.

But Bucky doesn’t feel normal.  He doesn’t feel _anything_ , most of the time really, except for the chronic pain and the sickening anxiety that doesn’t seem to go away no matter what he does.  

He forces himself out of the apartment for Becca’s sake, so she doesn’t get that worried face when she comes home from the long hours of her clinical rotation and finds out that he’s done nothing but stare at the wall all day.

So he goes for small outings into the city — the city that used to be his lifeblood, the chaos and liveliness of it something he felt he could never live without — but now it is _too_ intense, too overwhelming, the noise and heat and constantly moving crowds of people scraping up against the jagged edges of his raw nerves.

He tries to tamp down on the hypervigilance — the sick jolt of his stomach and the involuntary startles in response to every sudden noise or movement — but most of the time that just puts him back in that numb, distant place where he’s sleepwalking through his own life.  It’s like he’s lost the in-between; he feels everything too much or nothing at all. He makes it to the park that day with no memory of having walked there.

And then, all of a sudden, there’s this guy.  After almost a year of nothing but the squeaky-gloved, invasive touches of doctors and nurses, the guy’s punch to the face — the hard smack of his knuckles and the lingering ache it leaves in Bucky’s jaw — feels like the realest thing that’s happened to Bucky in months.  

And then he’s gone, taking the dog that’s Arrow-but-not-Arrow with him, the whole thing so surreal that later, staring at the wall back in Becca’s apartment, Bucky wonders if he really _has_ lost it and hallucinated the whole thing.

But the guy is there the next day, distracting Bucky from the crowds and the noise by tailing him home quite expertly, for no reason that Bucky can fathom.  And he’s back the next day too, bold as you please, sitting on the park bench just to sort-of apologize and let Bucky know that Arrow is okay. And then he’s back _again_ , with Arrow this time, and Bucky absolutely can’t figure him out.  He makes jokes about the arm — _nobody_ jokes about the arm — and doesn’t ask a single question about it.  And now, just when Bucky has resigned himself to slowly being smothered to death by his ma in her floral-wallpapered suburban New Jersey bungalow, he’s asking — what — for Bucky to _move in_ with him?  And spouting some nonsense about circuses and the Russian mafia?

And maybe Bucky should be running in the other direction, but he seems to drop back into his body and realize that he’s been outright _bickering_ with Clint, just like he used to do with Stevie or Becca before his life blew to pieces.  He got so caught up in bickering with Clint, in fact, that he just...forgot to feel weird for a couple of minutes there.  He felt like _himself_ for the first time in more than a year, and he wants to chase that feeling for as long as he can.

Whatever brand of crazy Clint is — and he’s definitely _some_ brand of crazy — he seems to say what he means and mean what he says, and after everyone around Bucky guarding every word and walking on eggshells to try not to upset him, it feels like a breath of fresh air.

So, yeah, he’ll go and check this out, because it’s the first interesting thing that’s happened to him since he got discharged from Walter Reed.

And because he really, really, _really_ doesn’t want to go live in Jersey.

 


	4. Aw, Miniskirt, No

Clint starts apologizing before they even get to the building.  

“So, I’m a little behind on, y’know, some of the building maintenance stuff.  And I didn’t really expect company, so...like...I can do better. I just haven’t bothered for awhile —”

Bucky tries to concentrate on what the guy’s saying — is he still trying to sell Bucky on this idea for some reason? — but now that they’re out in the street his attention is bouncing all over, assessing threats that he knows are only in his head.  It’s only been a few blocks but they seem to be going in the right direction for the cross-streets Clint mentioned, and so he’s probably not leading Bucky under a bridge to kill him.

 _Never go to a secondary location,_ Bucky hears Becca say, quoting some comedian she likes, but before the paranoia can get out of control they are in front of a squat five-story brick building and Clint is shoving through the door.

“You own this whole building?” Bucky is still not sure if Clint was kidding about...well, any of it.  He sure doesn’t _look_ rich, and Bucky knows better than most how much rent costs in Brooklyn these days.

Clint rubs the back of his neck, squinting.  “Yeah? They were gonna triple the rent and kick everyone out, and...y’know.”  He shrugs. “Moving’s a bitch. I mean, I won it fair and square, and like I said they keep tryin’ to take it back, but it’s mine all legal-like.”

He grabs his mail from a bank of mailboxes that look like they date back to the 1940’s, and pauses in the entryway.  “I’m on three,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the creaky-looking elevator and the stairs.

He doesn’t comment as Bucky heads toward the stairs, just takes the lead so that Bucky doesn’t feel self-conscious about his limp or the two-handed grip he has to have on the banister.  It’s a kind of casual consideration that makes Bucky wonder exactly how much Clint notices with those shockingly blue eyes of his, and what kind of smarts he might be hiding under that disordered haystack of blond hair.

“Gotta fix that too,” Clint says, frowning at a pipe they pass which seems to be wrapped in duct tape.  “Carpentry's no problem for me, but plumbing and electrical are just...not my thing.”

Then they are at the door of what seems to be Clint’s place.  

“Coffee?” Clint says, making a beeline for the pot without waiting for an answer.  He starts it up and then fills up a bowl with water for the dog, a plastic dish that someone has scrawled “Pizza Dog” on in black marker.

The apartment is nicer than Bucky would have expected from the outside, and from Clint’s disjointed apologies.  It’s got those big windows that are a holdover from the days before electric, and exposed brick that Bucky knows wasn’t thrown up there by some decorator.  It only looks half-unpacked, though, a mix of furniture and boxes.

“Did ya just move in?”

“Oh...nah...lived here for a coupla years.  Three or four? Just, uh, never got around to unpacking all the way.  After a while you hardly notice the boxes, y’know? But I can, uh, get around to it.”

 _What a disaster_ , Bucky thinks.

Clint seems unbothered by Bucky poking around.  He moves comfortably around the place as he hangs up Lucky’s leash and pours two cups of coffee, but Bucky notices that he leaves a clear path between Bucky and the door at all times.  He doesn’t seem disciplined enough to be ex-military, but there’s definitely _something_ there.

“You weren’t kiddin’ about the archery, huh?” Bucky says as he wanders over to the far wall of the apartment.  It’s been lined with some kind of cork paneling, pockmarked all over, along with a few ragged targets. One target still has a few arrows in it, not just in the bullseye, but a row of them lined up exactly along the vertical from top to bottom.  Bucky turns around and judges the distance. The way the apartment is set up, if you stand at the far wall and shoot through three rooms it’s probably at least 20 yards.

“Yeah, but don’t worry, I don’t shoot in here much,” Clint says, handing Bucky a chipped mug of coffee as black as motor oil.  “Just when I’m tryin’ out new arrows. I need more distance for real shooting, so I teach out at the range a coupla times a week.”

The only objects on the walls are a multitude of bows, but there’s a poster rolled up on top of a box nearby.  Bucky eyes Clint as he reaches for it, but he doesn’t object, just buries his nose in his coffee, a slight flush coloring his cheeks.  

“The Amazing Hawkeye,” Bucky reads, and...that’s definitely a much-younger Clint, in what looks to be purple sequined spandex, the whole outfit topped off by what could only be described as a miniskirt.  “Sparkly,” Bucky says dryly.

“Hey!  I pulled it off!” Clint protests, and Bucky can’t help but silently agree.

Bucky puts the poster down and wanders over to the window, looking down at the street below.  “So you weren’t just making up shit about the circus, or being an archer.”

Clint manages to look offended.  “If I were making up shit I’d have the sense to make it a little more believable than _that_.”

Bucky hums thoughtfully.  Although the windows are large there’s no clear line of sight from the street, and the fire escape looks like a good secondary exit.  “And the Russian mafia?”

“I told you, they’re...mostly handled.”  The statement starts out strong, but falters a little at the end.  “I mean, it’s been awhile since they popped up last —”

Bucky studies Clint for a moment.  He’s got a rip in the collar of his t-shirt, and a long, partially-healed scrape on his forearm.  His hands are gentle where they are delving into Lucky’s fur, rubbing his ear while Lucky leans his full weight against Clint’s shins with a satisfied huff.

This whole situation is beyond absurd.  Bucky would have to be insane to move in with this spectacular trainwreck of a person.  

“Lemme see my room,” he says.

* * *

Moving Bucky in goes pretty smoothly, at least from Clint’s perspective.  From the harried, overwhelmed look on Bucky’s face he had probably met with a bit of resistance from his ma and his sister, but he seems determined, and Becca only hovers around looking concerned for a bit before she jumps in and helps hump boxes down to Clint’s Dodge Challenger, double-parked in front of the building.

Ten minutes in, a guy named Sam shows up to help as well, apparently uninvited from the way Bucky reacts to his appearance.  It’s hard to tell if he’s a friend or an enemy given the way Bucky snipes at him, but Sam mentions that he met Bucky at Walter Reed and maybe that’s answer enough.  In any case, Sam laughs off Bucky’s grousing as though he’s used to it, and he can definitely pull his weight, so Clint leaves them to it and just enjoys the snarky double eye candy.

Lucky almost expires with excitement as they move the boxes in, weaving in between their feet and generally making a nuisance of himself with an expression so overjoyed that they can’t even be mad, until finally Becca volunteers to take him for a walk so they can actually get something done.

From there it doesn’t take long to get everything unloaded, and by the time Becca and Lucky return the pizza has arrived.  They wander around the place with beer bottles in one hand and pizza slices on napkins in the other, while Sam makes unhappy noises at Clint’s media set-up (“The way this is hooked up you can only get one channel, Clint!” “Yeah, I know, but it’s the one _Dog Cops_ is on, so I never really bothered…”) and Bucky makes equally displeased noises about his kitchen supplies, especially his apparent lack of a saucepan.

Clint starts to feel more than a little judged regarding his life choices, and is relieved when Becca seems fascinated by the archery set-up.  He gives her a quick lesson with his second-favorite recurve, and soon she’s hitting at least the blue. Apparently steady hands are good for more than her upcoming surgical residency, and when Sam finishes hooking up the t.v. he starts cheering her on, clinking beer bottles with her every time she gets in the black.

Clint keeps tabs on Bucky out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t seem spooked by the shooting, which is a good sign.  He’s too busy upending Clint’s kitchen cabinets and frowning at his oven. And, okay, so _that’s_ where his backup armguard has been all these weeks, and maybe shoving it in the oven to get it out of the way wasn’t the _best_ idea, but in Clint’s defense he’s pretty sure he was out of coffee that day.

“You know what this reminds me of?” Becca says to Bucky as she looses another arrow into the black.

“Shut _up_ , Becks,” Bucky warns, brandishing a frying pan, his brows drawn down in a way that means murder.

Becca’s eyes are alight with mischief, but she lets it drop.  “Sure thing, Bucky Bear,” she says, and Clint snort-laughs beer up his nose, filing the nickname away for future reference.

By the time Bucky has the kitchen arranged to his satisfaction they are all on the couch, watching _Dog Cops_.  Bucky sits gingerly in the open spot next to Clint, careful to leave as much space between them as possible, but it only takes a few minutes before Lucky is worming into the empty gap, pawing both of them as he gets himself settled with a happy sigh, his head on Bucky’s thigh and his back legs draped across Clint’s lap.

Bucky seems a little startled by the closeness at first, but soon he has his fingers deep in Lucky’s fur, petting him as both of their eyes grow heavy-lidded.  Clint sits back, eats his fourth slice of pizza, and soaks in the happy contentment on his right and the lively conversation between Sam and Becca on his left.

This was a good idea so far.  The place has been way too empty with just him and Lucky rattling around in it.  Clint had spent most of his life in close quarters between the group homes and the circus folk, and then later in shared missions with Nat.  He didn’t realize how much the solitude had been wearing him down until it was broken.

He sneaks a glance at Bucky, wondering if he feels the same.  Brothers-in-arms keep close quarters too, and even though Bucky has been living with Becca since his discharge there’s something a little off there, some strange hesitancy when they are near each other that Clint can’t quite figure out.

But then Sergeant Whiskers and Detective Fluffernutter are in pursuit of a suspect and Clint gets drawn into the show for a little while.  He must drift off a little, because Lieutenant Lucky is guest-starring.  Clint jolts awake as Becca and Sam stand, making their apologies for overstaying their welcome, Lucky kicking him solidly in the dick as he jumps off the couch.

“Aw, no, it’s fine —” Clint starts to say, but a glance at Bucky tells him that they are probably both a little wiped out from the day, so he doesn’t protest too much.

“I’ll walk you home, Becks,” Bucky says, standing.

Becca blushes a delicate pink, throwing a glance at Sam.  “Actually, Sam and I were gonna go grab a drink. D.C.’s not far from Baltimore, and he had some suggestions about places I should check out.”

“Oh.”  Bucky shoots Sam a narrow glance, but doesn’t really seem to object, confirming Clint’s theory that his surface-level antagonism with Sam is all bark and no bite.  “Okay, if you’re sure.”

Then Sam and Becca are leaving, and Clint can’t help but notice that there’s some awkwardness to Becca’s goodbye, as she moves to hug Bucky, vacillates, and ends up patting him on the shoulder instead.

Becca is already turning away, so she doesn’t seem to see the wounded look on Bucky’s face at the awkward goodbye.  Clint sees Sam notice with a silent grimace, but he doesn’t say anything, clapping Bucky on the back as he escorts Becca out.  Then Clint is locking the door behind them, a yawn cracking his face as he debates taking Lucky for another walk versus just crashing.

When he turns around, Bucky’s still staring at the door.

“Hey, are you —” he starts to say, automatically reaching toward Bucky.

The next thing he knows his hand is stinging, and there’s three feet of space between them.


	5. Aw, Hypervigilance, No

“Aw, _shit,”_ Clint says, at the same time Bucky hisses _“Goddammit!”_ through clenched teeth.

“Hey, don’t worry.”  Clint tries to catch Bucky’s eyes but he’s looking steadfastly at the floor, arms crossed tight across his body.  Clint mimics his posture, shoving his own hands underneath his triceps so he doesn’t inadvertently reach out again like a dummy.  “Deaf people are kinda tactile, but I’ll be more careful, I promise I’ll do my best not to —”

Bucky does look up at that, his face _devastated_ , and the words stop up in Clint’s throat.

“That’s — that’s not what I _want,”_ Bucky grinds out.  “I fuckin’ _hate_ that I’m like this.”

“Oh.”  Clint considers this for a moment.  “Maybe we should sit down.”

Bucky nods sharply, almost staggering back to the sofa before sinking down into it, hunched over.  

Lucky starts to head over and Clint clicks his tongue, giving Lucky the hand signal to go to his bed instead.  

Clint sits gingerly on the other end of the couch, trying not to flex his left hand where he’s missing the weight of the bow.  It’s not that he sees Bucky as a threat, exactly, but he’s definitely on high alert, and it’s strange not to have his weapon in hand when he’s like this — his heart thumping in his chest and his eyes scanning the room, making sure he doesn’t miss a fucking thing.

He’s not quite sure what to say so he waits it out, watching Bucky wrestle with whatever is going on in his head.

When Bucky speaks it’s so soft that Clint barely catches it.

“I hurt Becca.”

Bucky peers through his long hair as if gauging Clint’s reaction before he continues.  “Same as you, she caught me by surprise and I just struck out, but — now she’s…” The words trail off, but Clint is able to fill in the gaps — the way Becca hovered and second-guessed every time it would have been natural to touch Bucky.

“I can’t _stand_ it.”  Bucky’s mouth twists in a grimace, his arm whirring faintly as his metal hand clenches into a fist and then releases, over and over.  “We grew up together, little more’n a year apart, we were always teasing and hugging and squabbling and now —” Bucky pulls in a deep, shuddering breath.  “It sounds bad but I was fuckin’ _glad_ that she matched with Hopkins for her residency, because it gave me a reason to move out.  I don’t think I coulda done it much longer.”

Clint feels like he’s starting to get the shape of this thing in his mind.  “So you _don’t_ want me to be careful,” he hazards.  

Bucky’s eyes are bright when they meet Clint’s, the sheen of unshed tears sharpening the grey to an icy blue.  

“You _punched_ me,” Bucky says, the wonder in his voice making it sound more of an acclamation than the accusation it should rightly be.  “That first day — that was the first time since it happened that anyone treated me like — like a _person_ , and not just a _survivor_.  And you made jokes about the arm, and I was hopin’ that it could be like _that_ , like you would treat me like I’m not fucked up and then maybe I _wouldn’t_ be, but that was just wishful thinking.”

He shakes his head, laughing bitterly.  “I _am_ fucked up.  Jesus, I can’t even get a damn haircut because I can’t trust someone that close to me with a sharp object, I startle at every fuckin’ little thing, I hurt _my own sister_ — I don’t know what I was thinking, believin’ that a change of fuckin’ apartment would make everythin’ just fine.”

“What does your therapist tell you to do about it?”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, as if he’s thinking about denying having a therapist, but eventually he shrugs.  “She says I’ll get used to it in time, but I dunno. The way people avoid me, I don’t see that happenin’ any time soon.”

And, yeah, Clint can kind of see it.  Between the thing with Becca, and the murder stare Bucky gives everyone out in public, it’s no surprise people aren’t trying to get all touchy-feely with him.   The answer seems obvious to Clint, so much so that he wonders if he’s missing something.

“So, easy enough.  I won’t avoid you.”

And, yeah, he must have missed something, because Bucky is looking at him like he’s crazy.

“And if I hurt you?”

Clint shrugs.  “Eh.”

Bucky’s eyebrows draw down into an angry V.  “What the fuck does ‘Eh’ mean exactly?”, he says, spitting the words like bullets from a semiautomatic.

Dammit, explaining things is not Clint’s forte.  He’d rather just _do_ , but if this is what Bucky needs to be comfortable here, he’ll give it a try.

“‘Eh’ means that I’ll try not to catch you by surprise, but if I do, I can take a hit, I’ve taken plenty in my life.  And that’s if you can even get me — I have quick reflexes, and even if range weapons are my thing I’m not too shabby at hand-to-hand either.  Not that I’m gonna try to go up against your Terminator arm or anything, I’m no dummy, but I can hold my own long enough to get some distance and let you sort things out.”

There, that was probably the most explaining Clint had done in his life.

Bucky is looking at Clint like he’s seeing him for the first time, and maybe he is — or at least, seeing the part of Clint that he hadn’t quite been up front about yet.

“When did you leave the circus?” Bucky asks abruptly, and — yup, Clint is busted.  Oh, well, it had to happen sometime.

Clint gets up and heads for the coffeemaker.  Somehow he doesn’t think either of them are going to bed any time soon.  He doubles up on the grounds and smacks the switch before giving Bucky his answer.

“When I was sixteen.”  

Bucky grimaces at the half-answer, but carries on gamely enough.  “And you moved in here, about four years ago, with skills enough that you have no issue taking on the Russian mafia single-handed.”

There wasn’t really a question in there, so Clint just shrugs.

“And you’re what now — twenty-two?”  

Clint scowls at the mugs he’s pulling down from the shelf.  “I’m twenty-six, asshole.”

Bucky purses his lips, leaning back in the corner of the couch and looking Clint over.  Clint pours the coffee, giving Bucky time to reach his own conclusions about the six years of Clint’s life that he had conveniently forgotten to mention.

“Not military,” Bucky says.  “Contract? Mercenary?”

Clint transfers both mugs to his left so he can make a see-saw motion with his other hand.  Bucky seems to have forgotten his anxiety as he chases down the mystery, and therefore Clint is in no hurry to solve it for him.

“The Company?”

Clint snorts, because that’s just hard to picture.  Tasha, sure, she’d be great at that kinda covert shit, but Clint is more of a blunt instrument.

Bucky looks like he’s about to lose his patience, so Clint takes pity on him, setting one mug of coffee down in front of Bucky and taking a tongue-scalding gulp from the other.  “You ever run across STRIKE?”

The recognition dawns clear on Bucky’s face.  “STRIKE team? Not often, but every once in awhile they’d have us clear out of a place so they could come in.”  Yeah, now Bucky’s starting to get it. “There wasn’t usually much left but a smoking hole in the ground when they were done.”

Clint shrugs.  “We never pretended to be delicate about it.”

Bucky chews on his lip as he thinks it over.  “Are you still in the game? Is this all some kinda cover?”

“Hell no.”  Clint settles back on the couch, but closer to Bucky this time, not even room for Lucky between them.  “I’m retired. I got a dog to look after now.”

“Uh huh.”  Bucky sounds skeptical, but for once Clint is telling God’s honest truth.  Tasha is still in the game, but Clint put it all in his rearview mirror, and doesn’t even miss it.  Much.

Bucky leans forward to grab his mug.  He shoots Clint a sidelong glance, but when he settles back on the couch it’s a hair closer, enough that their arms are brushing.

“Wanna watch one more episode of _Dog Cops?”_ Clint asks.

Bucky nods.  He still seems to be holding his breath a little, though, and so Clint thinks it through while the opening sequence flashes by.

He reaches forward to put the remote on the coffee table, and when he sits back he’s flush against Bucky’s side, sliding his arm along the back of the couch so that it’s resting against Bucky’s shoulders.

“You don’t like anything, you just tell me or move away, and no hard feelings,” Clint says softly, his eyes on the screen even as he keeps Bucky in his peripheral.

Bucky’s adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, but then he seems to relax, leaning back into the weight of Clint’s arm as the last residual tension melts from his body.

And yeah, Clint knows what that’s like too.  Hell, touch-starved coulda described most of Clint’s life since his dad got tanked and drove himself and their mom into a tree.  

That hunger just to _feel_ something had led Clint into many ill-advised fistfights and probably an equal number of ill-advised hookups, sometimes even with the same person.  Tasha was the one to show him that he could have touch without sex or violence, and maybe with Bucky Clint could pay that lesson forward. Seemed kinda balanced, in the grand scheme of things.

But, contrary to popular opinion, occasionally Clint knows when to keep his thoughts to himself.  So he just says, “Oh, this is a good episode,” instead, giving Bucky’s shoulders a little squeeze.  “Detective Fluffernutter is on _point_ in this one,” he adds, and then settles in to watch the show.


	6. Aw, Nightmare, No

Clint falls asleep halfway through the episode of _Dog Cops,_ his cheek resting on Bucky’s shoulder.  Bucky gently pulls the coffee mug from Clint’s lax fingers before it can spill — and how Clint can sack out mere minutes after drinking that sludge Bucky’ll never be able to figure — and sets it on the coffee table.  

Then Bucky gives up on pretending to watch the show and studies Clint instead.  Clint got mad when Bucky guessed at his age — and sure, maybe Bucky shaved off a few years just to rile him — but he does look young for his age, with those sky-blue eyes and that yellow riot of hair.  

In sleep he looks even younger, the little laugh lines around his eyes smoothed out, his lips soft and full where his mouth is lax instead of constantly smirking.  This close Bucky can make out a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, as well as a slight bump where his nose was probably broken once and not set quite right.

Clint’s arm still rests heavy across Bucky’s shoulders, warm and grounding against the flesh and metal alike.  Bucky knows he didn’t explain it well at all, the feelings that seemed like they were ripping him to shreds, and yet somehow Clint understood exactly what he meant.  Knew exactly what he _needed_.

It is the irony of Bucky’s life that he had once taken for granted things that now seem so far out of reach.  Bucky had never lacked physical contact — palling around with Steve as kids, wrestling with his sisters, hugs from his Ma and Dad.  As he got older he learned that it took no more than a wink and a smile to get other kinds of contact too. A few shy kisses from the girl who took tickets at the movie theater, a grope in the backseat of a car with a blind date, a quick handjob from the bartender in a back alley before he was even old enough to drink.

Since his injury, that was all gone.  It started when he first saw the empty space where his arm used to be — this feeling that this body was not his own anymore.  The shiny metal arm and the clinical touches of the doctors and nurses only intensified the feeling. He wasn’t a person anymore, he was a _thing_ , to be examined and manipulated, poked and prodded and diagnosed.  He would sit calmly in a chair, and move his fingers as they instructed, and roll his shoulder as they commanded, and in his head he was _screaming_.

But now Clint says that he can get that kind of touch back.  That it’s just that easy. Bucky would be tempted to think that Clint is just naive, that he doesn’t understand how deeply debilitating the PTSD can be, but if he used to be STRIKE team then he’s no babe in the woods.  That’s some hardcore counter-terrorism wetwork shit. Clint’s probably seen more and worse than Bucky has, and that’s saying something.

Clint snorts a little in his sleep, and Bucky bites his lip to keep from laughing at the contrast between the deadly operative in Bucky’s imagination and the goofball currently drooling on his shoulder.  He eases out from under Clint, guiding him down to the sofa and lifting his legs up so he’s lying down.

It makes Bucky feel a little strange, looking at Clint all stretched out like that.  His shoulders are broad, his biceps stretching the sleeves of his t-shirt. One arm is flung out over his head, the tender expanse of his exposed tricep and the ropy tendon of his forearm making Bucky want to trace his fingers across that skin, to feel and compare those textures against the whorls of his fingerprints.

Bucky shakes his head.  He should go to bed, but he already knows that sleep is an impossibility.  There’s something restless buzzing under his skin. He whistles softly and Lucky pads out from Clint’s bedroom, his limpid brown eye looking hopefully up at Bucky.  Lucky sits patiently as Bucky attaches the leash to his collar. Bucky locks the door behind them with the shiny new key Clint had made for him. His leg doesn’t even ache much as he makes his way down the stairs, Lucky at his heels.

He steps outside and takes a big inhale of the crisp June night.  It’s well past midnight, and no one is around, only an occasional car making its way down the street.  It’s still cool enough to be refreshing, and only now does Bucky realize how overheated he feels, sweat beading at his temples.  He thinks again of the way Clint had felt snugged up against him — Clint’s thigh pressed to his, his arm holding tight around Bucky’s shoulders, anchoring him.  The feeling under Bucky’s skin seems to be growing, buzzing louder, an electric sensation that sends his pulse racing as he sets a brisk pace with Lucky.

Alone in the June night, with no one to witness but the dog, Bucky tries to put a name to the feeling.  It might be affection. It might be gratitude. It might even be attraction. But most of all, after a long time of feeling nothing at all, it feels like _hope_.

* * *

It’s almost uncanny, how easily Clint and Bucky settle into being roommates.  It should be an adjustment for Clint, having someone else in his space after so long, but less than a week into it he feels like Bucky has just filled a place that was always meant for him.

They stumble around each other in the morning.  Half the time Clint doesn’t have his aids in and it doesn’t even matter, both of them communicating wordlessly in a pre-verbal fog as they pull themselves together for the day.

Clint’s lessons at the range force him to stick to something of a schedule, and Bucky seems to have a never-ending series of appointments at the VA.  Some afternoons they are both home, and they restart the _Dog Cops_ series from the beginning so Bucky can catch up, or just sit around and make fun of movies together.

It’s not a perfect system — Bucky still gets jumpy at times, even though it happens less frequently as he adjusts to the new living situation.  But the upside of having an abusive sonuvabitch for a father is that Clint has always had good situational awareness, and so he is pretty good at telegraphing his movements, making sure that Bucky sees him coming before he presses a cup of coffee into his hand, or touches him on the shoulder as he slides past him in the kitchen, or settles down at his side to watch t.v.

* * *

Bucky has just fallen into a restless sleep when he hears Lucky yip sharply, followed by a tremendous crash.  Before Bucky even realizes it he’s up and at the doorway to Clint’s bedroom.

The bed is empty and he thinks Clint is gone at first, but then he catches sight of Lucky’s tail on the far side of the bed.  As he leans in more he sees a writhing shape on the floor, covered in blankets.

Clint curses, struggling free of the tangle of covers with sharp, frantic movements.

“Clint?”  Bucky says, still hovering uncertainly in the doorway.  “You okay?”

Clint doesn’t seem to hear, but then he raises his head and seems to catch a glimpse of Bucky in the doorway.  

Suddenly he’s scooting backwards, huddling himself up small into a ball in the corner of the room, throwing his hands up defensively in front of his face.

“Shit,” Bucky says, his heart sinking.  “I didn’t mean — I’m sorry, I’ll —” He takes a step back, toward the hall.

After a long, frozen moment, Clint squints one eye open, and then blinks a few times, as if suddenly realizing where he is.  “Buck?” he says hoarsely. He looks around at the wreckage of the bed, at Lucky whining plaintively at his side, and then back to Bucky.

 _“Fuck,”_ he says with feeling.  “Just...give me a sec. I’m sorry.”

He uncurls himself slowly, as if his muscles are aching, and reaches out an unsteady hand for the aids on the side table.  He hooks them behind his ears and presses the earmolds in, and then spares a moment to give Lucky a quick squeeze.

He stands up but his legs seem a little shaky, and before Bucky knows it he’s at his side, a hand around Clint’s waist to steady him.

“Hey...take it slow, sit down for a minute,” Bucky says, and Clint nods.  Bucky lowers him to the side of the bed and sits next to him.

“Are you hurt?  Did you hit your head or anything when you fell?”

Clint seems to take inventory, but then shakes his head.  His elbows are braced on his knees, his head hanging low between his shoulders.  Fine tremors shake through him from time to time, his breath coming in uneven pants.  Bucky hesitates for a moment, but then reaches up to rub slow circles on Clint’s back, the way he used to do for Stevie when he had an asthma attack.

“Fuck, that was a bad one,” Clint finally rasps.  He shoots a sidelong glance at Bucky. “I’m sorry.”

“You keep apologizing,” Bucky says, and his fear is making his voice sharp, so he swallows and deliberately softens his tone before going on.  “What for?”

“I dunno.”  Clint seems to droop more, and dammit, Bucky has said the wrong thing as usual.  “You were sleepin’ I guess, and I know you don’t sleep too good to begin with, so I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“I don’t mind,” Bucky says.  It’s crazy that Clint is even thinking about Bucky when he’s this upset, but that’s kind of Clint in a nutshell.

The shakes seem to be fading.  Clint sits up straighter, and Bucky awkwardly drops his hand from his back.  He probably shoulda asked before touching, Clint was always so careful to make sure that Bucky was okay with things, and Bucky hadn’t even thought about how it would work the other way around.  But then Clint leans in a little closer to Bucky’s side, and it seems natural to put an arm around him. Clint rests his head against Bucky’s shoulder and lets out a shuddering sigh.

“You want coffee?” Bucky asks, desperately casting about for something that will make Clint feel better.

Clint nods, but he still rests against Bucky for another long moment before he stands, and heads to the kitchen.  Bucky hangs back so that Clint can wipe the tears from his cheeks in privacy, and pretends not to notice that the shoulder of his t-shirt is damp from where Clint’s face had rested.

Bucky thinks of offering to make it himself, but Clint seems to take comfort in the familiar motions, so Bucky lets him be, just watching silently.  Clint ends up making coffee for himself but a hot chocolate for Bucky, and it kindles something warm in his chest to think that Clint already knows him so well.

Clint’s fingers brush his own as he presses the hot chocolate into Bucky’s metal hand, and then they settle on the couch side by side, thighs pressed together even though there’s plenty of room.  Clint pats the couch next to him and Lucky jumps up, flopping down with a contented sigh.

Clint turns the television on, but Bucky can tell that neither of them are really watching the old Western that’s playing.  Clint is staring vacantly at the screen, absent-mindedly petting Lucky but looking like he’s a million miles away.

Bucky sips his hot chocolate.  Clint makes it with milk instead of water, and it’s better than any he’s ever tasted.  Bucky didn’t even know you could do that.

He doesn’t want to make Clint talk about it.  God knows if it were him he wouldn’t want to talk about it.  But there _is_ something he feels he needs to know, and finally he decides to bite the bullet and just ask.

“If it happens again — do you want me to stay away?”

Clint’s jolts a little bit at Bucky’s voice, but then he’s turning that bright blue gaze on Bucky, blinking a little as his brow draws down in confusion.  

“No?  You helped, a lot.  Unless it was weird for you —”  Clint starts to lean away, and Bucky can’t help but wrap an arm around his shoulders, drawing him close again.  That’s not what he meant at all.

“I just meant — I thought I scared ya at first.”  Bucky tries not to sound bitter about it, but he can’t shake the memory — the way Clint cringed away from him, the fear on his face.

“Oh.”  Clint looks down at his coffee.  “I didn’t. That wasn’t.” He stops, takes a breath.  Takes a sip of his coffee and starts again.

“Short and long of it is, my dad was an asshole.  Drunk half the time, but mean even when he wasn’t.  Beat the crap outta us at regular intervals, and beat most of the hearing outta me.”  

Clint self-consciously adjusts the aid in the side Bucky can see.  “I was dreaming about him, and then when I opened my eyes, the way you were in shadow in the doorway, I just thought it was him for a minute.”  Clint clears his throat. “Nothin’ personal. As soon as you stepped back inta the light I realized it was you.”

“Oh.  Shit.”  And, that’s a stupid thing to say, but for some weird reason it makes Clint grin.

“Yeah.  Doesn’t make sense — I’ve faced guys worse than him — hell, other assholes have hurt me worse than he ever managed — but somehow _he’s_ the one who always shows up in my nightmares.”

Bucky doesn’t really have anything to say to that, so he doesn’t even try.  They sit for a bit longer, both of them not-watching the screen. Clint finishes the last of his coffee and puts the mug down on the coffee table.  When he settles back he rests his head on Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky pretends to watch the movie but he can’t shake the idea of Clint as a little kid, being beaten up by someone Bucky’s size.  It makes him mad as hell to think of anyone doing that to any kid, but _especially_ to Clint.  Clint is just _good_ , with no question.  He may not always do the smart thing, but he does what he thinks is right, and the idea of someone trying to beat that goodness out of him fills Bucky with so much anger that he has to put his mug down too before he accidentally breaks it in his metal fist.

He concentrates on breathing deep and slow, trying not to think of the past and focusing instead on the warm weight of Clint against his side.  A few minutes later Bucky realizes that without knowing it, he’s started playing with Clint’s hair, fluffing and then smoothing it in turns. It’s soothing, like petting Lucky, and Clint seems to like it too, making a happy hum as Bucky traces his fingertips behind his ear, just skimming the edge of his hearing aid.

It should be weird, Bucky thinks, but it’s nice.  And nice things are rare in his life these days, so he’s not going to question it.


	7. Aw, Obligations, No

They are both dragging in the morning, Clint’s eyes heavy-lidded as he downs coffee at an alarming rate.  Clint had scolded Bucky off to bed around 3 a.m., but Bucky’s pretty sure neither of them actually got any more sleep.

“Least it’s Friday,” Clint says, and then raises his eyebrows at Bucky’s grimace.

“Fridays are the best!” Clint protests.  “You’ll see...nice weather like this, the whole building gets together, grills out on the roof.  S’fun.”

Bucky isn’t sure about that, but he can’t think that far ahead either.  “Friday’s the day I give the devil his due,” Bucky mutters.

He’s not sure if he means for Clint to catch that or not, but apparently he does.

"Whaddaya mean?”

Bucky puts his coffee mug down with a little more force than he means to.  “The arm is a special prototype. Part of a clinical trial. Normally they wouldn’t fit me with a prosthetic, not with my shoulder all blown to hell like it was.  You need more of a residual limb to attach it to. But Stark Industries was developing this implanted one. That was the deal — I’m their human guinea pig, and now every Friday I gotta go to their R&D and let them download all the data, and poke and prod at me to their heart’s content.”  Just the thought of it is already making his jaw ache with tension. “I _hate_ it.”

“Sucks,” Clint agrees.  “Now that you got it, can’t you tell them to go shove their tests?  What’re they gonna do, take it back?”

Bucky has thought about it, that’s for sure.  “Can’t risk it,” he explains. “Even if it just malfunctioned, I’d be up shit creek.  And I had three months of livin’ with one arm before I got it. Couldn’t cut a steak, couldn’t tie my shoes.  Couldn’t even carry a book and open a door at the same time.” He shakes his head. “Nah, I just gotta deal.”

Clint bumps his shoulder in sympathy.  “Well, I’ll have a beer waiting for ya when you get back.”

And that’s a nice thought.  Bucky isn’t sure about meeting the rest of the building, but sitting out on the roof, with Clint and Lucky and a cold beer in his hand?  That sounds like something he can look forward to.

“Shit,” Clint says, checking the time.  “Gotta go.” He drains the rest of his coffee in three big gulps, bumbling his way toward the door with his bow over his shoulder.

Bucky catches him by the shirt collar before he can make it out.  

“Forgot somethin’, dumbass.”  He snags Clint’s quiver from under the coffee table.  Clint blushes, ducking his head as Bucky loops the strap over it, settling it across his chest.

“Thanks, Buck.”  Clint’s smile is pure sunshine.  He snaps Bucky a lazy salute, and then he’s out the door.

Bucky finishes the last of his own coffee — one cup to Clint’s three — and puts his mug in the sink.  He looks at Lucky, who looks plaintively back at him.

“Clint forgot to walk you, huh?” he asks, and Lucky’s tail thumps the floorboards.

They are halfway to the park before Bucky’s phone buzzes with a text.

 _I forgot to walk Lucky!_ Clint has texted, probably from the subway, followed by the dog emoji and a frowny face.  

The man loves his emojis.  That‘s something Bucky is still getting used to.  No one really used emojis before he went to basic, and he made do with voice calls since then.  Becca’s the one who got him this fancy smartphone — a Starkphone, in fact — and he’s still getting used to it.

Instead of texting back, Bucky waits until they are at the park.  He pats the bench next to him, and Lucky jumps up. After only a bit of fumbling around with his phone, Bucky manages a selfie of himself and Lucky, Lucky caught in the act of licking a big stripe up Bucky’s cheek.

He texts it to Clint, and only has to wait a moment before Clint texts back a heart-eyes emoji.

It’s ridiculous, but for the first time ever Bucky heads for his appointment at Stark Industries still smiling.

* * *

The lead bioengineer flips open the panel in the bicep of his prosthesis, a perfunctory stripping away of the illusion that Bucky is entirely human now.

She plugs in a series of cables, tapping at her computer to start the data dump, and Bucky wonders what they are able to read from the 0s and 1s.  Can they tell that after Clint’s nightmare he and Bucky sat up and ate cereal together, Clint’s arm pressed warm against Bucky’s metal prosthesis like it didn’t even bother him?  

Then the poking and prodding starts, as they palpate Bucky’s shoulder for pain, test the range of the prosthetic joint, measure fine motor accuracy and touch sensitivity and a million other things that Bucky barely understands.  Bucky finds himself dissociating again, retreating behind that wall of cotton-wool numbness.

 _Beer_ , he tells himself grimly. _Lucky.  Clint._

He just needs to get past this, and he’ll be back at home — and it _is_ home already, strangely enough.  He’ll sit with Clint on one side and Lucky on the other, and have a beer, and feel the sunshine on his face, and that’s something he can focus on until this part is over.

There’s four people now, talking about bio-augmentation algorithms and osseointegration and myoelectronic actuators and a million other words that Bucky can’t even spell, and he tunes them out, but at least he’s not dissociating again.  It’s kind of the opposite — he’s grounded this time, those three words keeping him focused, giving him something to look forward to — keeping him from clawing at his own skin. Keeping him sane. _Beer. Lucky. Clint._

Maybe even not necessarily in that order.

* * *

Clint checks the clock again.  Barely a minute has passed since he checked it last.

He huffs out a frustrated grunt.  He nocks another arrow and looses it, watching it hit exactly where he aimed.  His accuracy is as perfect as usual, but he just can’t manage to lose himself in the soothing rhythm of shooting the way he usually can.

Finally, _finally_ , Lucky perks up his head, moving toward the door.  Clint plays it cooler, steadily shooting arrows as Bucky comes in.  He listens as he throws his keys in the bowl, as he closes and locks the door, as he pulls his boots off, as he gives Lucky a few pats.

Finally, Clint puts the bow down, unstrapping the quiver.  “How’d it —” he starts, but his first glance at Bucky freezes the words in his throat.  “That bad, huh?” he finishes lamely.

Bucky shrugs, but he’s got that twitchy, haunted look that has been increasingly uncommon over the past week.  

“Glad to be back,” Bucky rasps, his eyes still darting around uneasily, and it makes Clint want to reach out and just squeeze him tight until he settles.  Recognizing that impulse for the tactical error it would be, Clint heads for the fridge instead, grabbing two beers and holding them out at arm’s length until Bucky takes one.

They stare at each other for an awkward moment.  Clint wonders if Bucky feels this same pull for contact, but if so he gives no sign.  Bucky pops the cap off the bottle with a metal thumb, and takes a long gulp, and Clint pries his eyes away from the long stretch of his throat, moving to the couch to sit down.

Bucky eventually sits down too, all the way on the other end of the couch, a gaping distance that hasn’t been between them since Bucky first moved in.  Before Clint can stop him Lucky jumps up, causing a full-body startle in Bucky, but he manages not to spill the beer.

Lucky nuzzles into Bucky’s side, kicking Clint as he goes, and Clint can’t even be mad about always getting the ass-end of his own dog these days as Bucky digs his fingers into Lucky’s ruff and seems to settle down a little bit.

“Wanna —” Clint starts, but Bucky is already talking over him.  

“How was your day?” he asks, the request for distraction as obvious as a neon sign.

So Clint obliges, talking about his day at the range — everything from the lessons with the little kids who can barely point the arrow in the right direction to the techniques he’s working on with Katie-Kate, who is absolutely going to make it to the Olympics this year.

It doesn’t take much brain space to rattle on about the range while Clint keeps Bucky in his peripheral, watching as his breathing slowly regulates, his stiff postures slowly relaxes.  And Clint hates to break his hard-won peace, but he shoulda been up on the roof half an hour ago.

“I gotta head up,” he finally says.  “You wanna give it a pass for this week?”

Bucky blinks, as if just now remembering the invite.  

He seems to stand with an effort, his jaw tight as he says, “I — I should meet everyone.”

“There’s plenty of time for that,” Clint tries to reassure him.  “We cook out every Friday s’long as the weather’s nice.”

Bucky seems stuck in indecision, still standing but not making a move either way.

“I should go,” he finally says again, like it’s a mission.  And maybe it is, one he’s set for himself.

Clint rubs the back of his neck.  He’s not one to tell Bucky what he can and can’t handle, but he’s worried all the same.

“Lucky’ll come,” Clint finally decides.  “If you need an out, just say you’re gonna walk him.  You don’t even needta, you can just come down here and chill out.  ‘Kay?”

“Yeah.”  Bucky seems to ease at that, even managing an unsteady smile.  “Let’s go meet the neighbors.”

* * *

It’s not nearly as overwhelming as Bucky had been expecting, and a lot of that’s probably on Clint.  Clint sets Bucky up at a table in the corner with a good view of everything, gives Lucky a hand signal that has him planted by Bucky’s side, and at regular intervals brings over beer and a neighbor or two at a time to introduce to Bucky.

Any time it looks like Bucky is getting crowded Clint is suddenly there, telling Aimee that Deke had a question about what kind of bike he should get, or asking someone to take something over to Grill.

Everyone is nice, and relaxed, and the sun is shining and the beer is cold in his hand, and it’s about as good as Bucky had pictured in his mind’s eye to get himself through his Stark Industries examination.  Except for the fact that Clint is constantly on the move, socializing with everyone, averting minor disasters like the complete lack of hot dog buns or the argument developing between Deke and Marisol about the merits of Postmodern architecture.

Bucky’s content to mostly watch.  People say hi but then wander off again when they find Bucky naturally lacking in small-talk.  Everyone seems to love Clint, and Bucky can’t help but wonder how a man can be friendly with so many people and yet seem to have so few friends.  Is it a deliberate choice, or a product of his former profession? Or maybe it’s a result of something even prior to STRIKE — there’s always something a little off on the rare occasions when Clint talks about his circus days.  There’s no real nostalgia, and not a small amount of bitterness.

It’s probably because Bucky is lost in his musings, watching Clint dangle two small children off his biceps, that the woman has a chance to sneak up on him.  He looks up and she’s just there, sitting in the chair next to him, watching him watch Clint. She has short dreadlocks and umber skin going a little purple under eyes that are tired but kind.

“Those two are mine,” she says, tactfully pretending not to notice how Bucky has to regain his composure.  She nods her head at the two kids who are now gleefully crawling their way up Clint with their feet so they can hang upside down from his arms instead.  

“You’re Simone.” She’s probably the one Clint talks about the most in the building.  She lives down the hall with the two kids, and Bucky is pretty sure that she’s at least half of the reason Clint staked his life savings in a poker game for the building.

“That’s me,” she agrees.  She leans back in her chair, still watching her children using Clint as a human jungle gym.  “Welcome to the building.”

“Thanks.”  Bucky takes another sip from a bottle that’s long empty out of sheer awkwardness.  “Everyone’s been real kind.”

“We all owe Clint a lot.”  Clint has a kid in each arm now and is spinning.  He stops and wobbles, almost sending them all down in a heap before he recovers his balance.  “He vouches for you, and that buys you all the goodwill you’re gonna need around here.”

Bucky’s fingers pick at the label on the beer bottle, not sure if that is meant to be a reassurance or a warning.  Is this a shovel talk? Does she think that they are more than roommates? And why the hell did Clint vouch for him when he didn’t know the first thing about him?

“You’re all very close,” he says instead, and she nods as if he just solved a puzzle she had put in front of him.

“Shit went _down_ with those mafia guys.  Some people couldn’t hack it, and they left.  Considered it myself, what with the little ones to look after.”  She looks back at her kids, a smile reflexively crossing her expression before it grows serious again.  “But we trusted Clint to get us through, and he did. We _all_ did it, by sticking together.  That’s part of what this is all about.”  She gestures in a way that encompasses the whole rooftop celebration.

Bucky is starting to understand a little more — how much it meant that Clint had invited him to move in, and how important it must be to him that Bucky gets to know his neighbors.  And yet he had given him the option to pass.

Clint and the kids have fallen into a tickling match, and Clint seems to be losing given that he’s face-down on the asphalt.  Bucky can’t help but smile when he sees it. “He’s a good man,” he finds himself saying. “I can see puttin’ your faith in him.”

Simone’s assessing eyes grow a little softer.  “That he is.” She takes a sip of her own drink, rubbing her thumb against the condensation gathering on the side.  

“Kids take work,” she says out of nowhere, as if it’s the natural progression to their conversation.  “Anything worth having does, but you’ll never know a greater joy.”

Bucky feels his eyebrows draw down.  “Are you actually trying to give me cryptic relationship advice under the pretense of talking about your children?”

Simone laughs, loud and bright, her whole body relaxing.  “Man, this magical Negro shit always works in movies, I thought I’d give it a try,” she says.  

Bucky can’t help but laugh along with her.  “Nah, you did good. Very wise, very zen. Nine out of ten.”  

He looks up and Clint is struggling his way towards them, a kid under each arm.  He swings the smaller kid in his right arm toward Simone, who takes the handoff easily.  

“Thing #2 needs the bathroom,” Clint says.  “And that’s where Uncle Clint taps out.”

“C’mon, baby,” Simone says, taking the other kid by hand.  “Say bye to Uncle Clint and Bucky.”

“Bye Unca Clint ‘n Bucky!” the kids chorus, and Simone gives Bucky a wink as she heads toward the stairwell.

Clint collapses into the chair she had been sitting in.  His hair is sticking up at all angles, his shirt soaked with sweat along the chest and armpits.  He’s got a little smudge of asphalt across his cheek from when the kids had him down on the rooftop during the tickle fight.

“Uncle Clint, huh?”

Clint rolls his eyes, but he can’t quite get the goofy smile off his face.  “They’re good kids.”

Bucky can’t help it.  He licks his thumb and then reaches out, wiping the smudge of asphalt from Clint’s face.  He immediately feels foolish afterwards, as Clint’s eyes widen. He shows him the smudged thumb as if proof will mitigate just how strangely intimate of a gesture it was.

“Thanks,” Clint says, looking down and fiddling with Lucky’s ear with much more attention than the task probably warrants.

“You get enough to eat?” Clint finally asks, breaking the semi-awkward silence.

Bucky takes the out gladly.  “I could probably do with another burger.”

“C’mon.”  Clint stands, and then after a moment of consideration holds out his left hand to Bucky.  He doesn’t flinch in the slightest as Bucky reciprocates with his metal hand, taking Clint’s grasp and allowing Clint to haul him up out of his chair.

“I’ll introduce you to Grill,” Clint says.  “Since he’s never gonna leave the grill, you gotta go to him.”

“Fair enough,” Bucky says.  He snaps his fingers for Lucky, and they both follow where Clint leads.


	8. Aw, Insomnia, No

“Fuck.  Shit.” Bucky tries to keep the cursing under his breath, not that it matters.  The mug that just shattered in his metal hand was probably enough to —

And yes, there is Lucky, galumphing up to see what the commotion is.  Bucky grabs a wad of paper towels and throws it over the mess before Lucky can lick up a few shards of ceramic along with the spilled milk.  

“Dammit, Lucky!”  Lucky settles for licking Bucky’s face instead as Bucky gathers up the soggy mess, and then weaving underfoot as he moves to throw it in the trash can.

Bucky hears a click, the noise Clint makes to get Lucky’s attention before he gives a hand signal, and Lucky backs off.  Bucky looks up to see Clint watching him with that soft little half-smile he gets, his hair sticking up at all angles and his face pillow-creased.

Bucky runs his good hand through his hair in frustration.  “Sorry I woke you up. I was tryin’ ta be quiet.”

“No worries.”  Now that Bucky knows he’s there Clint moves in, companionably bumping Bucky aside with his hip as he starts to take over making the hot chocolate Bucky had been attempting when he shattered the mug.  “Nightmare?”

“Gotta sleep to have nightmares,” Bucky grumbles.

“Ouch,” Clint agrees, putting the saucepan back on the stove.  Yeah, ouch is right. It’s past 3 a.m., and Bucky is fairly sure he’s not getting any rest tonight.

“You don’t gotta stay up,” Bucky tries, but Clint just grins at him and reaches past his shoulder to flip the switch on the coffeemaker.

“I’m gonna switch that for decaf some day, just to see your brain go into complete shutdown,” Bucky threatens, and Clint’s ludicrously horrified expression makes the last of his frustration dissipate.

They stand in companionable silence for awhile, listening to the gentle drip of the coffee maker, Clint half-humming some tune under his breath as he stirs the milk so that it doesn’t form a skin.  Bucky leans against the counter, letting his overtired brain just drift.

“Shoulder hurtin’?” Clint asks, and Bucky drops his hand from where he’d unconsciously been rubbing at the junction of the prosthesis and skin.

“Yeah.”  Bucky starts to shrug, pauses midway when a sharp zing of pain shoots down his arm, and consciously forces his shoulders to drop instead.  “Nerve pain, phantom limb pain, all mixed up tonight.”

Clint is stirring the cocoa powder into the steaming milk now.  He hands the mug to Bucky’s right hand, and then grabs the whole pot of coffee for himself, ignoring Bucky’s eyeroll.

Bucky sets his mug down on the coffee table and flops down on the couch with a sigh, Clint sitting at the far end just so he can obnoxiously put his feet up on Bucky’s lap, taking a big loud slurp out of the pouring spout of the coffee pot.

“Wanna watch something?” Clint asks, and Bucky gives a wave of his hand that means, ‘whatever, I’m too tired to make a decision.’  And he should have known better, because Clint immediately puts on Great British Bake-Off, which Bucky secretly enjoys but still gives Clint a hard time about loving.  

“Oh, shove it,” Clint says, apparently reading Bucky’s mind.

“You kept your _arm guard_ in the oven.”  It’s not the first time they’ve had this argument, and the familiar banter is a comfort.  “You don’t even own a cookie sheet.”

“Raw dough tastes better anyway,” Clint says, and Bucky makes a ‘you see what I’m dealing with?’ gesture in Lucky’s direction that he has to stop halfway, hissing in pain.

“That help?” Clint asks, and Bucky looks up to see he’s tilting his head toward where Bucky is rubbing at the joint again.

“Not much.  Feels like I can never get it right,” Bucky says.  

“I could try.”  

Bucky can’t help the surprised raise of his eyebrows.  He didn’t mean — it’s just that Clint caught him off guard, that’s all.  But Clint seems a little embarrassed now, scratching his nose and refusing to meet Bucky’s eyes.

“I just mean — used to do that all the time for the circus folk.  Pulled muscles everywhere you looked, even with all the training they did.  It was something I was good at, before I got big enough to do some of the heavy lifting.”

Bucky doesn’t know what surprises him more, the offer or hearing Clint talk about his circus days.

He takes a sip of the hot chocolate to soothe his suddenly-dry throat.  “Yeah. Okay,” he says. “Give it a try, if you’re willing.”

Clint grins and hops up, perching himself on the back of the couch behind Bucky, unbelievably spry for ass o’clock in the morning.

His fingers are still warm from the coffee pot, and he starts at the nape of Bucky’s neck, digging in with the perfect amount of pressure that makes Bucky bite back a groan.

“Fuck, you _are_ good at this,” Bucky can’t help saying as his head droops forward to give Clint more room to work.

“Told ya,” Clint says unmodestly.  “I’m gonna work my way down, you tell me if I need to ease off the pressure or if somethin’ hurts, alright?”

“Yeah.”  Bucky can barely get the word out.  He didn’t realize how tight his neck had been until Clint started to methodically and ruthlessly work the tension out of it, his strong thumbs digging in, working out the knots and smoothing out the muscles.

“Whoa,” Clint says softly, and Bucky didn’t even realize he had started to list forward until Clint pulls him back with a strong forearm across his chest.  

“Here.” Clint wiggles around a little bit and ends up with his thighs clasped tight against Bucky’s sides, Bucky grasping at Clint’s knees to hold himself steady against the firm pressure of his hands.

“There we go,” Clint says, apparently feeling something as he hits the exact spot where Bucky’s hurting the most, and Bucky has to bite back another groan.

“So you did this in the circus?” Bucky asks.  Partly he’s curious, and partly he feels like he could use a little distraction from the way Clint’s hands seem to know his body better than he does himself.

“Yep.  Helpin’ with strained muscles, or easing out charley horses.  The aerialists — trapeze artists — they had it the worst, but even the trick riders and riggers got hurt now and then.”

“What else did you do — before you became ‘The Amazing Hawkeye,’ I mean.”

Clint snorts.  “Before, after.  I wasn’t no star act, and on the lot you pull your weight or they leave you behind.  Sell tickets beforehand, sell concessions during the show, do your turn and then help break down the stalls and top afterwards.  In between you’re advance, puttin’ up signs, or traveling. Hustler, canvasman, rigger — I did it all at some point.”

“And your parents?  Did they have an act?”  Bucky’s not sure if he’s allowed to ask.  He knows for sure that Clint’s dad is a sore spot.

“My folks?”  The surprise is clear in Clint’s voice.  “Nah, they weren’t in the circus.”

“I thought you said you grew up there.”

“Oh.”  Clint works at Bucky’s shoulder for a bit, seeming to gather his words.  “Well, I started out on a farm.  I told you about my dad, right?  When I was eight he went drivin’ drunk and killed my ma and himself.  Barney ‘n me went to a coupla group homes —”

“Barney?”  Bucky didn’t mean to interrupt.  And he shoulda said something comforting, something like he was sorry about Clint’s folks dying, but now the moment has passed.

“Yeah, my brother.  He’s — we’re not in touch.”  There’s a grim note in Clint’s voice that puts a full stop at the end of that line of discussion.  “Anyways, one day I wake up in the night and see Barney packin’ a bag. I don’t know to this day if he woulda taken me along if I hadn’ta woken up, but I did, and so we lit out together.”  

Clint’s voice seems carefully casual, like it doesn’t matter much to him whether or not his only family had been planning to ditch him in the night.  

“And we ended up at Carson’s.  I mean, it was shady as fuck, but that’s kinda the least you’d expect for a place that would take on two runaway kids, no questions asked.  And small is good for some things — gettin’ into tight rigging, or skinning up the king pole. Crawling under the stalls to pick pockets without gettin’ noticed.  And then I grew, and started doin’ the other stuff. Heights never bothered me much, I kinda like them, so I was a catcher for the trapeze act once I got tall enough. Did some clowning, trick riding.  Little bit of everythin’, and then the archery act got good enough to headline.”

“Why’d ya leave?”  Bucky knows immediately that he’s said the wrong thing.  Clint’s fingers clench down a little too hard, and Bucky winces.

“Shit.  Sorry, Buck.” Clint says.  

He pulls in a deep breath.  “I — Sometimes when I’m rememberin’, I remember it bein’ a helluva lot better than it probably was, y’know?  Because really — Carson’s wasn’t no Ringling Brothers. It was a criminal organization with a circus for a front, and most of the people there would sell you out for a dollar.  And that’s more or less how it went down.”

Clint’s hands are just rubbing slow circles on Bucky’s neck now, as if he’s soothing himself more than Bucky.  “They sold me out — Barney included. Left me for dead, so I could take the rap for a job that went sour. And even after it was clear I was gonna live, I woulda gone to jail, if Coul — if SHIELD hadn’t shown up to recruit me.  Offered me a deal, and I woulda been a sucker not to take it. Training, pay, three squares a day, gettin’ me out of the mess I was in, and all I had to do was shoot at some real people instead of a target.”

It doesn’t sound like a good deal, no matter how light Clint keeps his voice as he relates the story.  At least Bucky had a choice when he enlisted, he knew more or less what he could be signing up for, even if he hadn’t expected it to be as horrific as it was.

“I —” Bucky doesn’t even know what he planned to say, and so he doesn’t mind so much when Clint interrupts him.

“Well, that’s probably enough of Clint Barton’s Circus Storytime,” Clint says, his voice flat with self-deprecation.  Bucky can practically feel him wanting to pull away, and so he loosens his grip on Clint’s legs.

For a second Bucky thinks Clint is falling — his heart lurches and he turns around sharply to see that Clint has just flipped off the back of the couch, landing on his hands and springing back to his feet in one graceful movement.  “Ta da!” Clint says, but there’s something dark lurking in his eyes, and Bucky can’t bring himself to smile.

There’s an awkward moment, Bucky just staring as the false smile fades from Clint’s face.

“Well,” Clint says, dusting off his hands.  “Think you can sleep now?”

“Yeah.  Sure.” Bucky knows there’s no other answer he can give, bald-faced lie that it is.  

“Good.”  Clint gives him a crooked smile.  “Night, Buck.”

“Night, Clint.  Thanks a lot — for the shoulder, I mean.  Feels a lot better.”

And that’s Clint’s real smile back, small though it is.  “Good. Get some sleep.”

Clint clicks his tongue and Lucky follows him back to his bedroom.

Bucky clears the mugs away, thinking over everything Clint had said.  Sixteen when he left the circus, Clint had said that first day Bucky came to his place.  Bucky thinks about himself and Stevie at sixteen — dumb kids knocking around Brooklyn and the most they had to worry about was Steve starting fights he couldn’t finish.

He lies in bed, and he wasn’t lying — the pain is much better in his shoulder, but sleep still doesn’t come.


	9. Aw, Toilet, No

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know I warned for Slow Burn, but I promise you all I *am* getting to it. They just have to figure it out a little more, but they're getting there...thank you for your patience!

Clint is a little awkward in the morning, but he seems to get over it by the third cup of coffee.  

Even though he was up the rest of the night thinking about what Clint told him, Bucky tries to act as normal as possible.  He feels bad enough for pushing Clint into saying more than he was comfortable with.

Christ, if anyone should understand the wish to put parts of your life behind you, it should be Bucky.  Clint hasn’t pushed at all — hasn’t even asked Bucky about the arm, or anything he doesn’t bring up himself, and Bucky regrets that he can’t do the same.

He doesn’t mean to pry, it’s just that he wants to know Clint a little better, wants to _understand_ him more.  There’s such a paradox to him — the soft heart, and the spine of steel.  The gentle hands with knuckles scarred up from a thousand punches. The goofy, approachable exterior, and then somewhere deep inside the inner steel trap of secrets that Bucky is just starting to feel his way around the edges of.  

And if there’s a _reason_ that Bucky is so curious – that it’s so important to him to really understand Clint – well, that’s not necessarily something he wants to think too much about.

* * *

Clint has only been gone for a minute or two when there’s a firm knock on the door.  Bucky barely gets it open before Simone pushes in, one kid on her hip and the other dragged along in her wake.

“Bathroom emergency!” she yells over her shoulder.  “Clint said it would be okay.”

She seems to know exactly where she’s going, headed for Clint’s bathroom, and so Bucky shrugs and leaves her to it, starting another pot of coffee.  He’s got a few hours before he has to be at the VA, and he rides easier if the subways have cleared out the rush-hour commuters by the time he leaves.

After a few minutes Simone comes out, pushing the dreadlocks back from her forehead, the kids trailing cooperatively behind.

“Whew!” she says.  “That was a close one.  Sorry to barge in, but potty training is no joke and our toilet is backed up again.”

“No problem.”  To his surprise, it really isn’t a problem, having Simone and her kids in his space.  It suddenly strikes Bucky just how far he’s come in the last few weeks.

“Coffee?” He holds up a mug.

“I shouldn’t take the time.”  She’s already dressed in her scrubs, comfortable-looking shoes on her feet.  “I gotta get to work, but Lord knows if I can’t get the toilet fixed before then I’ll probably have to call in to wait for a plumber, and they won’t be happy about it.”

Bucky hesitates for a moment, but he remembers how it was when he was growing up, one toilet for the whole family and unreliable plumbing.  

“I could take a look,” he finally says, a beat or two too late.

Simone’s whole face lights up.  “Really?”

* * *

“Charlie, right?”

Simone is bustling around in the other room trying to find shoes for the little one, but the other kid has followed Bucky into the bathroom and is watching him with wide eyes.  Bucky’s not sure what to do about that. He was around kids plenty growing up but it’s been awhile, and his sister’s kids were born after he was deployed.

The kid nods solemnly, thumb in his mouth.

“Think you can handle being my assistant?”

“Uh huh,” Charlie mumbles around his thumb.

“Alright then.”  Bucky hands him a wrench he probably won’t actually need, and Charlie pops the thumb out of his mouth to carefully take it in both hands.  “You hand me that when I ask for it, okay?”

Charlie nods again, and Bucky turns his attention to the toilet.

“Bunny,” Charlie volunteers.

“Okay?” Bucky wonders what the hell that means.  It doesn’t take him long to find out, though, as he fishes something out of the trap.  At first he thinks it might be a dead rat, but it turns out to be a bedraggled and largely-unstuffed stuffed bunny rabbit.

“Bunny went for a swim, huh?” Bucky asks, and Charlie nods again.

“Oh my Lord,” Simone sighs from the doorway, and Bucky manages not to startle although he does have to turn around so his back isn’t exposed.  “Charlie, did you flush Bunny down the toilet?”

Charlie looks at her wide-eyed for a moment, and then shakes his head no.  Yeah, Bucky isn’t buying that for a minute, and neither is Simone.

“Well, next time just tell me and Bunny can go for a swim in the washing machine, where he’s headed now,” Simone says.  She grimaces, picking up the soggy mess by the tip of one ear.

“I can put him in the washer for you,” Bucky offers.  “I got enough time before I have to head out for a cycle to run.”

“That would be great.  He’s probably not gonna smell any sweeter if I leave it for tonight.”  

Simone finds a plastic bag to put the unfortunate Bunny into.  As Simone sees Bucky out, Charlie charges forward and hugs Bucky’s leg.  The little one, not to be outdone, toddles forward and grabs on too.

Bucky throws a helpless glance at Simone, who appears to be internally laughing her ass off.  

“Good job, kids.  Now say thanks to Uncle Bucky and let’s get going.  We shoulda been out of the house ten minutes ago.”

“Tanks, Unca Bucky” the kids chorus, and Bucky heads down to the washing machines in the basement with a soft, warm feeling kindling in his chest.

* * *

Clint heads home from the range, tired and headachy.  He likes the classes with the little kids, but the parents can be a pain in the ass sometimes — the kind of Manhattanite Type A personalities that shuttle their kindergarteners between classes in archery and Mandarin and speed reading, already thinking about how it’s all gonna look on their college applications.  

It’s so foreign from anything in Clint’s experience that he never feels like he handles it right.  Sometimes he’d rather someone just pull a knife on him instead of pulling him aside, making passive-aggressive comments about his teaching style for so long that he misses lunch.

He gets home at the same time as Simone and the kids, holding the door open for them.

“Oh, Clint!” Simone says.  “My toilet —”

Clint feels his shoulders droop even further.  “Aw, toilet, no,” he whines. He forgot that Simone told him her toilet was stopped up on his way out this morning, and it’s the last thing he wants to deal with right now.

Simone rolls her eyes.  “Relax, dummy. I was just gonna tell you that Bucky fixed it in no time.”

“Really?”  Clint’s mood improves dramatically.

“Really.”  Simone hikes the baby a little further up her hip, and Clint holds out his arms for a hand-off, following her to the elevator.  “We’re gonna make some cookies and bring them over as a thank you in a bit, but I just wanted to let you know you didn’t have to worry about it.”

“That’s great.”  Man, Clint doesn’t have to deal with the toilet _and_ there’s gonna be cookies?  This is such a win.

“How come you don’t ask Bucky to be the new building super?” Simone asks as the elevator doors shudder closed.

“Uhhhh….”  Clint looks down at the kid in his arms, stumped.  Because he’s a moron? Louis smiles gummily up at him and then starts chewing on the strap of his quiver.  

“Because I didn’t think of it?”

“Well, you should.”  

And fuck, that really would be great.  “You’re a genius,” he tells Simone. “Think he would do it?”

He probably deserves the look Simone gives him.   _“You_ live with the man, you tell me,” she says, and...okay.  Fair point.

He sees them to their door, assuring Simone that Bucky doesn’t have any food allergies as far as he knows.  I mean, he knows him at least _that_ well, doesn’t he?

He shoves open the door to his own place, eager to share his — well, Simone’s — brilliant idea with Bucky.

Bucky is sitting on the couch but he startles, shoving something behind his back with a guilty look.

“Oh.”  Clint stops short, almost tripping over Lucky who is frolicing around his feet.  What in the hell could he have interrupted? “Sorry, I’ll just —”

“Nah.  It’s fine.”  Bucky sighs, pulling whatever he was working on out from behind is back.  “It’s stupid, it’s just —”

“Is that Bunny?”  Clint moves closer, dropping his bow and quiver and sitting on the couch next to Bucky.

“Yeah.  Charlie flushed him this morning, and I told Simone I’d run him through the wash.  So I did, but even more of his stuffing came out, so I kinda figured I’d…” Bucky trails off, gesturing vaguely, a pink flush settling high along his cheekbones.

And...oh.  This might legit be the cutest thing Clint has ever seen.  Now that he’s looking, Clint sees that Bucky has what seems to be his own bed pillow down at his feet, the seam ripped open to cannibalize for stuffing.

Clint worries that Bucky will misinterpret the smile that is trying to bust across his face, so he works on tamping it down.  “It’s not stupid. Charlie loves that thing.”

Bucky relaxes a touch, but he still has a little furrow across his brow.  “I’m gettin’ better with this thing,” he says, holding up the metal hand, “but I still couldn’t thread the stupid needle.”

“Oh.  I can do that part.”  The needle and spool of thread are on the table, and Clint threads the needle, doubling and knotting the thread while he’s at it before cutting it free from the spool.

He looks up to find Bucky watching him closely.  “You know how to sew?” Bucky asks.

Clint shrugs.  “Not great, but good enough to mend stuff.”  He still feels a little weird about how much he shared last night, but Bucky knows this much at least.  “You grow up poor, you learn to make do, y’know?”

“Yeah.”  Bucky pokes a last bit of stuffing into Bunny’s belly, making it nice and fat.  He takes the needle gently from Clint’s hand, and focuses on the tear in Bunny’s side with maybe a little more attention than the job warrants.  “I _do_ know,” he says, his voice rife with meaning.

That’s just something that never occurred to Clint, that Bucky might have struggled growing up too.  And Bucky already knew some of the part about the circus, so Clint doesn’t know why he was so on edge last night, expecting Bucky to judge him for the rest.

Except maybe he does, because it’s something that’s just been a fact of life for him.  He went from “the kid with the drunk for a father” to “that no-good foster kid” to “carnie trash,” and he’s used to thinking that good, honest folk like Bucky would automatically despise him for it.  Except maybe now he’s starting to realize that Bucky’s a little bit different.

Clint thinks it over as he sits close to Bucky on the couch, their thighs pressed together, the tension of the day easing away as he watches him work.  

“Hey,” Clint finds himself saying.  “Simone had a genius idea. Our super couldn’t hack it and ran off during the whole mafia business.  Do you want the job? It’d be a big help, and you can set your own hours and all that. Work stuff in around your VA appointments and whatever.”

Bucky glances up sharply, and then glowers down at the bunny.  “You already found me a place, Clint. You don’t need ta find me a job too.”

“I mean, I know I don’t _hafta_.  You could probably get any job you wanted.  I just figured if you wanted, I mean — the position’s open, and you’d be helping out a lot.  And I thought it might work good for you because you’re already comfortable here and all that.  But don’t feel obligated.”

Bucky’s scowl has faded as Clint babbles.  His eyes dart up again, searching Clint’s face.  “You’re serious?”

“Well, yeah?  I mean, you saved my ass today fixing Simone’s toilet, and it sounds like you actually know what you’re doing and all.  But if there’s anything you don’t know how to fix, you can just be in charge of calling the plumbers or electricians or whatever.”

“We could try it out, I guess.”  Bucky seems more worried than skeptical now.  “But if I’m not doin’ a good job, you gotta tell me, okay, and you hire someone else?  Because I know how important this building is to you.”

Clint can’t help the grin that spreads across his face.  “Yeah, you do. That’s what makes you the perfect person for the job.”

Clint basks in the answering smile that Bucky can’t quite stifle.  Bucky bumps Clint’s shoulder with his, and Clint bumps him back.

Bucky turns his attention back to Bunny, and Clint goes to get a beer, and then settles back to watch him some more.  Even the metal fingers are quick and deft against Bunny’s bedraggled fur. Bucky is intent and focused, a little wrinkle back between his brows as he concentrates on the repair.  Clint feels that warm, happy feeling in his chest expanding.

Suddenly, intensely, he wants to kiss Bucky, right on that little divot of concentration.  The thought seems to come out of nowhere, smacking Clint upside the head.

And okay, Clint is not usually the quickest on the uptake when it comes to romantic relationships.  And he knew Bucky was gorgeous, I mean, anyone with eyes can see that, but it wasn’t, like, a _consideration_.  It’s not like he did any of this to get into Bucky’s pants.  Would Bucky even be interested in that? He talks about that guy Steve a lot, but maybe he’s straight?  And when the hell did Clint catch _feelings_ for Bucky that it got so bad before he noticed?

“You okay?”

Clint startles to awareness and realizes that Bucky is looking at him, and maybe has been for awhile while Clint has been having his internal freak-out.

He’s probably been staring at Bucky like an idiot, mouth open and beer dangling from his fingers.

“No.  I mean, yes.  Yeah, I’m good.  I mean, I’m great.  I’m fine,” Clint says.

 _I’m screwed_ , Clint thinks.

* * *

Clint was acting a little weird earlier, but maybe he was just tired.  He seemed to perk up when Simone and the kids came over with cookies, and they all ended up ordering pizza.  

Bucky sees Simone and the kids out, the newly-restuffed Bunny tightly clasped in Charlie’s arms and Louis asleep and drooling against Simone’s chest.  

Charlie darts forward and hugs Bucky’s legs again before he leaves.  Bucky’s still smiling as he shuts the door behind him. Clint is doing his version of cleaning up, which means he’s giving Lucky the last slice of pizza while he shoves the last cookie into his mouth.

Then they both settle on the couch again.  It was nice having Simone and the kids over — she told quite a few stories about Clint that had Clint face-palming — but the quiet is nice too.  Just sitting here, with Clint and Lucky. It feels...homey.

Clint has found an arrow loose somewhere, and is messing with the fletching, head flopped back on the back of the couch as he squints at it.  “Fireworks tomorrow night,” he notes casually, not even looking away from the arrow.

Bucky’s stomach drops.  He hadn’t even realized — he should have brought this up with his therapist weeks ago.  Based on how he had reacted that one time a car backfired, fireworks would —

“Lucky hates ‘em,” Clint continues, interrupting Bucky’s panic-spiral.  “I got it set up where we can listen to the t.v. with headphones, usually we watch movies all night.  You want in on that?”

The relief is palpable, the sickening roil of Bucky’s stomach settling immediately at the thought of being able to just block it all out, safe and warm wedged on the couch between Clint and Lucky.

“Yeah.  Sounds good,” he mumbles.

Clint still doesn’t look up, just smiles to himself small and private, where he’s fixing his arrow.

Bucky scoots in a little closer and Clint doesn’t miss a step, just loops his left arm so it’s around Bucky’s shoulder.  

Bucky lets his eyes droop to half-mast, resting his head against Clint’s shoulder.  He feels the movement of the muscles under his cheek as Clint continues to fiddle, the silence warm and comfortable around them, Lucky leaning heavily against Bucky’s other side.

 _Yeah,_ Bucky thinks.  That’s what this warm feeling must be.   _Home._


	10. Aw, Shower, No

“Shit.  Fuck.” After wobbling precariously for a few moments the showerhead shoots right off, conking Clint on the head on the way down.  “Sonuvabitch!”

Water is spraying everywhere, but Clint manages to get it turned off, shampoo stinging in his eyes.  “Fuck!”

The towel he had set aside is soaked.  He uses it to wipe the shampoo from his eyes, but his hair is still sticky with it.  He awkwardly fixes the wet towel around his waist and turns toward the door, before realizing it’s shaking.

He pulls it open and Bucky is standing there, hand raised to pound on the door again and mouth moving.

“I’m fine — just a plumbing disaster.”  Clint can tell he’s probably speaking too loud.  “Sorry, let me just get my ears back in —” He turns around, digging around in the mess of stuff on the sink to find his hearing aid case.  At least he closed it so he knows they stayed dry.

As he’s looping them behind his ears he catches sight of Bucky in the mirror.  Bucky’s staring at his back, eyes wide, and...fuck.

“Shit.”  Clint wheels around.  “Sorry.” He knows the scars make people uncomfortable.  “I’ll cover up —” He reaches for his dirty shirt on the ground, avoiding eye contact while he pulls it over his head.  He almost loses the towel in the process and makes a grab at it. Just great, Clint. First the scars, then go ahead and moon the guy.  

He looks up and the sheer fury in Bucky’s expression makes him instinctively back up a step, the sink vanity catching him hard across the back of the thighs.

 _“Who did that to you,”_ Bucky growls.

Clint appreciates the sentiment, but the child-of-an-abusive-father in him is seriously _not_ digging this scenario.  His heart rate kicks up, every muscle in his body automatically tensing for the strike.

“First of all, can you cut it out with the angry looming?” Clint says sharply.  “Take two steps back, please.”

Bucky blinks and the rage on his face melts into embarrassment.  He backs all the way out to the hall, but then just stands there.  

Clint sighs, wondering which of the many disasters his morning has become he should try to address first.

“Look, Bucky.”  Bucky flinches a little and Clint takes a deep breath, trying to bleed some of the exasperation out of his tone.  It’s not Bucky’s fault that Clint reacts the way he does to a threat, but his eyes are still stinging, and his head is throbbing, and Lucky has squeezed into the bathroom now and is leaving dog hair stuck to Clint's wet legs, and he’s not Bucky Barnes’ fucking damsel in distress.  

“If you want a list of everyone who’s ever laid hands on me, that’s a fuckin’ long list.  I suggest you do what I do and take consolation in the fact that most of them are dead and buried.  Hell, some of them I put in the ground myself. Now can I use your shower? Because this shampoo is stinging like a bitch.”

Bucky stares at the floor and nods, his face red with anger or embarrassment or both, and Clint sighs, unhooking the aids from his ears and making his way past him.  He’ll deal with that later, and giving Bucky time to cool off is probably not the worst idea either. He’s had a remarkable handle on his emotions lately, at worst tending more toward flight than fight, but Clint knows how that can turn on a dime.

By the time Clint is clean and dressed with his aids firmly in place, he’s feeling a lot less off balance.  He finds Bucky in the kitchen, and the coffee already brewed.

“M’sorry,” Bucky mumbles at the floor, and now Clint feels like shit.  

The instinct to cower in response to a raised voice or a raised hand took Clint years to ruthlessly train out of himself and it makes him irritable as hell when it still manages to pop up unexpectedly, but none of that is Bucky’s fault.  And the scars — well, Clint has seen a few people react to the scars, and it’s never good. At least Bucky’s reaction was concern, and not disgust.

“You don’t need to be sorry.”  

Bucky is watching Clint now, blue-grey eyes steady on his face as if trying to catch every nuance, and the intensity of his focus forces Clint to say a little more.  

“It’s — some of my old issues popping up, and I was a dick to you because of it.  Not your fault.”

Some of Bucky’s tension seems to ease at that, but he still looks away.  “I shouldn’ta —”

“No,” Clint interrupts, taking care to keep his voice gentle but firm.   _“Not your fault.”_

He waits until Bucky meets his gaze again.  Bucky swallows and nods.

“I’ll still accept the Apology Coffee, though,” Clint smirks, and something in him relaxes at Bucky’s answering smile, small as it is.

“C’mere,” Clint says, lifting up his arm without thinking about it.  Bucky doesn’t seem to have to think about it either, though, sliding in against Clint’s body, arms automatically going around his waist as Clint hugs him back, half-sideways.  It should be awkward but it isn’t. Clint feels the last of the weirdness between them dissipating, and so he has to be an asshole about it, reaching up with his left hand to give Bucky a noogie.

“Goddammit, Clint,” Bucky grumbles as he ducks out of Clint’s loose grip, but he’s smiling for real now.  “Do you know how long it takes me to tie my hair back with one good hand?”

“Aw, shit, no,” Clint says, truly repentant.  “I never thought about it. Here, hold still.”

He takes the elastic band Bucky has pulled free and loops it around his wrist, gathering Bucky’s hair back in both hands.  It’s soft, and warm where Clint’s fingers are delving closer to Bucky’s skull, and Clint suddenly thinks about pulling Bucky in by the grip on his hair, bringing their mouths together —

Shit.  Fuck. He shoulda thought this through.  He hurries to finish up, gathering the mass of hair in one hand while he pulls the band off his wrist, and how the fuck does Bucky do this on his own?  The metal plates of his prosthesis must pull on the hair like crazy.

“You like it this long, even though it’s a pain in the ass?” he finds himself saying, mostly to distract himself from how close he is to Bucky — so close that Clint can see the variegated color of his irises, can feel the puff of Bucky’s breath against his neck.

“It drives me up the wall.”  A soft flush is spreading up Bucky’s cheekbones, and god, but Clint wants to taste it.  “Too jumpy to let someone up into my space to cut it.”

“Oh.”  Now Clint remembers Bucky said something about that the day he moved in.  He hesitates, fingers still wrapped in the hairband. “Are you — am I too close?”

“Nah.  I don’t mind when it’s you,” Bucky says, his eyelashes sweeping down to hide his eyes, and fuck, Clint is just staring like an idiot.  He wraps the elastic band around the hair he’s gathered, fingers suddenly clumsy, and steps back.

“I could cut your hair, then,” his mouth says without his permission.  “If you want.”

“You know how?”

Clint shrugs.  “Barney ‘n me used to shave each other’s heads back from the time we were kids.  And then Lana in the circus taught me how to do it better, with scissors an’ all.”

Bucky pulls at the ponytail a little, considering.  “I — I don’t want to freak out on you,” he finally says.

“Hey, if you’re not ready, you’re not ready,” Clint says.  He reaches out and tugs on Bucky’s ponytail too, just as an excuse to touch him again.  “But if you wanna try, I could always start in front.” He grins. “Leave you with a mullet if you freak out.”

“Asshole,” Bucky says, but he’s smiling too, and god but Clint is a sucker for that smile.  He’ll play the clown any day if it makes Bucky smile like that.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, decisively.  “Yeah, let’s try it. But not now, you gotta get going.”

Clint checks the time.  “Shit!”

Bucky’s already pouring the coffee into Clint’s travel mug, a bright purple one Bucky got him after the third time Clint left a plain black one on the subway.

“After dinner,” Bucky decides, and Clint nods.  He takes the mug from Bucky, stifling the urge to just lean in and kiss him goodbye on the cheek.  That would be weird, right, even if it were just on the cheek? Yeah, that would be weird.

He almost raises his hand for a high-five out of sheer awkwardness, but course-corrects at the last minute and ends up on a semi-normal wave.  “After dinner,” he confirms, a beat or two too late, and then flees the apartment.

Fuck, he could barely tie Bucky’s hair back without his mind running wild, why the hell had he offered to get all up in his space again to cut his hair?

“I am the dumbest man alive,” he mumbles out loud.

“Sure are!” Aimee calls out cheerily as she passes him on the front steps, and talk about kicking a guy when he’s down.  That’s just uncalled for.

* * *

Bucky made lasagna — and it was absolutely _not_ Apology Lasagna, no matter what Clint says — so Clint does the dishes.

Bucky wonders if maybe he forgot, but then Clint starts laying newspaper down on the floor of the living room, Lucky watching with considerable interest from his dog bed in the corner.  Clint sets one of the backless stools from the kitchen island right in the middle.

He seems to feel Bucky watching, and looks up.  “I didn’t ask — you still okay with tryin’?”

“Yeah.”  Bucky feels awkward, but not nervous, exactly.  He’s not sure what he feels, and why his throat is so dry that he has to clear it.  He’s been thinking about the way Clint put up his hair at odd times today — the way his warm fingers had felt against Bucky’s scalp, the gentle tug of them.

“It’s easier when it’s wet,” Clint says.  “Barney ‘n me usually used the hose, but I’m guessing the sink sprayer might work.”  

Bucky looks dubiously at the sink sprayer, and then back at Clint, who seems to think this is hilarious.  “You look like a cat about to get a bath,” Clint says, and Bucky can feel the scowl on his own face deepening.  “Don’t worry, I’ll help.”

Clint guides Bucky to the sink with a gentle hand on his back, and makes sure the water temperature is just right before he has Bucky stick his head in the sink.

Bucky is half-expecting to get sprayed in the face, but Clint seems to know what he’s doing, putting the sprayer close to Bucky’s head so that the water trickles warmly over his scalp.  Clint keeps a firm hand on Bucky’s shoulder, making sure he’s tilted enough that the water doesn’t go in his face, and Bucky finds himself relaxing into the pressure of it.

It’s almost disappointing when Clint turns the water off, handing Bucky a dishtowel.  Bucky feels a little disoriented when he stands up, toweling his hair until it's no longer dripping. Clint is already back by the stool, looking over the comb and scissors he had gathered up earlier.

Bucky hesitates for a moment, and then sheds the flannel overshirt he’s wearing, leaving him in the white sleeveless undershirt he had underneath.  It’ll be easier for Clint than working around the collar of the shirt, and it was already getting damp.

He knows he’s showing more of his scarred-up shoulder than he has before, but...it’s clear now that Clint is less likely than most to be fazed by the reddened and twisted skin.

Clint’s eyes stay steady on Bucky’s face, a little half-smile on his face as Bucky sits down.  The stool is higher than a barber’s chair would be, and Clint only has to duck a little to meet Bucky’s eyes.

“Just let me know if you start to feel jumpy, okay?” Clint says, his eyes bright with sincerity.  “I’ll start with just a trim, and I’ll make sure it won’t really look weird if I hafta stop, okay?”

Bucky nods.  

Clint steps in, close between where Bucky’s spread legs are braced on the rail of the barstool.  And Clint is so good at seeming unassuming, making himself appear smaller than he is, that it’s only when he’s close like this that Bucky realizes what a big guy he actually is.  Even though his waist is lean and his legs are long, his shoulders are wide, his biceps like softballs. It should make Bucky feel anxious, closed-in, but instead it just makes him feel...safe.  Protected, by the bulk of Clint’s broad torso.

Clint starts by just running his hands through Bucky’s damp hair, finger-combing out the few tangles, and Bucky feels himself relaxing, his shoulders dropping from where he hadn’t even realized they had been tensed up to his ears.

By the time Clint starts with the comb and scissors, Bucky feels like he’s almost in a daze.  The gentle scrape and tug of the comb through his hair, and the snip of the scissors isn’t making him anxious at all — instead it’s soothing, lulling him into an almost sleepy state.

Clint is standing so close that Bucky can practically feel the heat from his body.  He smells nice too, something woodsy and vanilla that must be the shampoo he had dripping in his hair this morning, as well as the ever-present overlay of coffee.

“Doin’ okay?”  

Bucky blinks back to awareness, realizing that Clint stopped snipping and has ducked down again to look him in the face.  

“Yeah,” he says stupidly.  “It’s not — it feels nice.”

Clint smiles, sunny and wide.  “Good.” He uses his fingers to brush a few stray locks of hair from Bucky’s cheeks.  “I can start cutting for real, then. How do you want it? Short like in that picture you had, or just short enough that it’s not in your face?”

Bucky has to think for a minute before he remembers showing Clint the picture of himself and Lucky back when Lucky was just a pup.  “You remember that?”

“My two favorite guys?  Of course I remember,” Clint says absently, and then his eyes widen, as if just realizing what he said.  “Uh…”

“Not that short, maybe,” Bucky says hurriedly, not sure why his own cheeks are burning, a warm feeling kindling in his chest.  “Not military, so maybe — that other thing you said?”

“Yeah.”  Clint has straightened up and moved to the side a little, so Bucky can’t see his face.  “Sure, yeah, I can — I can do that.”

And then he starts up again, fingers feathering through Bucky’s hair, and the pleasant lassitude settles over Bucky again.  Clint is breathing deep and steady at Bucky’s back, and Bucky finds himself matching the pattern of his breathing, closing his eyes as the scissors snip away.  

Clint is working closer to his neck now, and his fingers brush against Bucky’s nape, making him shiver for a moment.

“Cold?” Clint asks.  “You can put your shirt back on after this if you want.”

“‘M fine,” Bucky says.  “Just a little...ticklish,” he lies.

“Oh, okay,” Clint says, but the next time his fingers are firmer as he brushes the stray hairs off of Bucky’s neck, his palms briefly smoothing down both his good right shoulder and the tangled mess of scars and metal on his left with no hesitation.

Clint comes around to the front again.  “You should —” he says, but instead of explaining further his hand is warmly cupping Bucky’s jaw, tilting his head up from where it had been drooping.

“Good,” Clint says, warm and low, and the word seems to shudder down Bucky’s spine.  He inhales sharply, pulling Clint’s scent into his lungs, but Clint doesn’t seem to notice.  He seems focused on his task, his brow furrowed just a little, his mouth pressed into a firm line as he tugs and cuts at the hair at Bucky’s temples.  

Clint doesn’t do his archery in the apartment much, but when he does he has this same intent focus.  His hands are deft and sure, the rhythm of his movements smooth and unhurried. It’s mesmerizing even then, but now, when Bucky is the target of that single-minded concentration?  It makes his stomach flip.

Too soon, Clint seems to finish.  He puts the scissors down, running his fingers through Bucky’s hair a few more times, comparing lengths on each side.  Finally he stills, dropping his hands from Bucky’s hair and stepping back.

“Wanna take a look?”

Bucky runs his own right hand through his hair self-consciously, pretending that he doesn’t miss Clint’s gentle touch already.  

“Yeah, sure,” he says, a little embarrassed by how husky his voice comes out.  He straightens up, rolling his shoulders. His whole body feels loose and relaxed, as if he’s just woken up from a long nap.

Now Clint’s gaze drops, but he doesn’t seem to be focusing on Bucky’s scars overmuch.  Instead, his eyes are on Bucky’s chest, skimming along the edge of his collarbone. They dart up again as Bucky hesitates, and Clint steps back.  

“After you,” he says, gesturing grandly, and Bucky heads toward his bathroom with Clint following, Lucky weaving between their feet trying to trip them both up.  Bucky leaves the door open so Clint can see.

He flips the light on and almost startles.  He moves in closer, turning his head this way and that, taking in the man in the mirror.

It’s...somebody new.  Not the Bucky who enlisted, or served, with the spiky military cut.  But it’s not the Bucky who came out of the hospital either, his hair shaggy and unkempt.  This is some new version of himself. His hair is short enough to not get in his face, but still has some long layers.  No offense to Clint, but it looks remarkably stylish for something produced by a man who owns primarily sweatpants and hoodies and wears his own hair in a disordered haystack.

“You like it?”  Bucky meets Clint’s eyes in the mirror, and realizes he has been hovering nervously as Bucky examines himself.

“It’s great,” Bucky assures him.  “It’s — it’s perfect.” And it is.  It’s like Clint looked inside Bucky and saw exactly who he was — no, even more, who he _wanted_ to be — and then showed him that it was possible.

 _You’re perfect_ , he thinks at Clint’s reflection in the mirror, the stray thought catching him by surprise.

Clint is smiling like sunshine again, his eyes taking in Bucky’s reflection as well.  Bucky can almost feel his gaze like he felt the touch of his fingers — dragging down his jawline, brushing against his temples, soft but sure.

“Good,” Clint says.


	11. Aw, Feelings, No

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the ratings change!

Clint nocks the arrow and releases it.  It flies straight and true, landing dead center in the target.  Before it even thunks home Clint is already pulling the next, nocking it and releasing it in one graceful, fluid movement.

Everything seems crisp and clear but in slow motion at the same time.  In that strange, syrupy way that time moves in dreams, Bucky drifts closer between one moment and the next.

Clint is shirtless and barefoot, wearing only faded purple sweatpants that hang so low on his hipbones that Bucky can see the dimples at the base of his spine.  The quiver full of arrows rests against his right shin, leaving the scarred expanse of his back bare to Bucky’s gaze.

Some distant part of Bucky’s brain knows that in the real world Clint is too self-conscious of his scars to ever be like this.  In this dreamspace, however, everything soft-edged and sunshine-bright, Bucky knows with certainty that Clint doesn’t mind him looking.  That, in fact, Clint has deliberately put himself on display. Clint’s focus never leaves the target but he knows that Bucky is watching — he _wants_ Bucky to watch.

And Bucky, mesmerized, can’t help but do anything else.  Clint’s back ripples and flexes, his spine twisting in easy movements as the thick muscles of his arms bunch and relax.  The scars only highlight the breadth of his shoulders, the graceful sweep of his spine. There is resilience and strength written in the dappling at the crest of his shoulders that Bucky instantly recognized as cigarette burns, in the long-healed cuts and lashes across the planes of his shoulder blades, in the starburst of a gunshot exit wound low on his right side.  

Bucky watches, and he _wants_.  Wants to feel those different textures under the whorls of his fingerprints, wants to taste them with his tongue.  Wants to press his whole body against Clint’s back and circle him with his arms and grind up against him. Wants to erase the harm that anyone else ever inflicted on Clint with his own touch, imprint the feel of himself and no one else onto Clint’s flesh and bones.

As if hearing his thoughts, Clint looks over his shoulder.  He smiles, slow and sweet as molasses, loosing another arrow at the target without looking in a way that sends arousal shuddering down Bucky’s spine, settling low and warm in his belly.

“Hey, Buck,” he says, his voice rough.  “C’mere.”

Bucky moves forward.  He is close enough to touch now, close enough to see the slight beading of sweat at the nape of Clint’s neck, to smell that woodsy-vanilla scent of him, to just reach out and —

Bucky’s alarm blares out, mercilessly tearing the dream away like wet tissue paper.  Bucky flails out and smacks his phone, silencing the alarm before groaning quietly into his pillow.

He’s hard, unconsciously grinding into the mattress.  He’s woken up hard like this a few times since he was injured, but it never lasts.  He ends up too caught up in his head — in the ache of his missing arm, in the certainty that things will never be the same.  It only ends in bitter frustration, his movements growing rougher even as his erection wilts away. He _knows_ this, and yet —

Right now, in this moment, it feels _good_.  He rolls his hips into the mattress a few more times, letting his head sink back into the pillow.  

He thinks of the dream, how close he was — how he almost had Clint’s skin under the palms of his hands.  Imagines how it would feel if he had taken that next step, had run his hands down the long sweep of Clint’s back, had wrapped Clint up in his body the way he had wanted to.  He knows with certainty how Clint would feel, strong and sturdy, but with just enough give to feel exactly right when Bucky squeezes him tight.

He’s drifting now, falling into a sort of haze.  His right hand reaches down to palm his cock, just to press a little, just to feel a little more.  He thinks of Clint’s hands — the long, blunt fingers, the scraped-up knuckles. How steady and sure they are.  He wonders if they would be as deft at this as they are at everything else, if they would manage to touch Bucky just right, light him up from the inside.  

The head of his cock is growing damp and he circles his palm over it, spreading the wetness down his shaft, thinking of how Clint’s long fingers had curved around the grip of his bow, had plucked delicately at the string.

In his mind’s eye Clint turns and smiles again, and Bucky’s imagination flits through a hundred different moments, remembering Clint’s smirk, his wide grin, that absent half-smile he greets Bucky with in the morning.  He imagines tasting those different expressions, licking those soft lips open. Would Clint just open up, soft and sweet and pliant beneath Bucky’s mouth, or would he take charge? Maybe he would push back against Bucky, pinning him in place so that he could invade Bucky’s mouth, slow and deliberate.

That makes Bucky think about when Clint was cutting his hair.  How careful he was, how methodical. How gentle his fingers had been in Bucky’s hair, cupping his jaw.  And now the memory is interweaving seamlessly with the fantasy. Clint’s fingers tighten in Bucky’s hair, the hand on his jaw pulling him forward into a fierce kiss.  Those gentle hands are running deliberately down Bucky’s back, lifting his thigh up around Clint’s waist as Clint steps in closer, pressing into Bucky with the full weight of his body.  

Bucky is rutting into the mattress now, his cock sliding slickly through his fist.  He imagines that it is Clint’s hand on them both, pressing their cocks together, forcing the little grunts of pleasure from Bucky’s throat.

“That’s it, Buck,” Clint says, his hand tightening, stripping them both ruthlessly as he trails sucking bites down Bucky’s throat.   _“Good.”_

The orgasm catches Bucky by surprise, welling up from the base of his spine, shuddering through his whole body.  He gasps a deep breath in, letting it out on a groan as the pleasure seems to go on endlessly, shaking him to the core as he pushes into his come-slick hand, milking every last sensation.

By the time it’s over he feels boneless and liquid, muscles lax and head pleasantly fuzzy as he flips over and stares at the ceiling.  It takes a moment before the full enormity of what just happened hits him, and he suddenly finds himself blinking tears from his eyes, his throat tight with gratitude and relief.

After the first few months he had come to terms with it.  His entire life had been blown to pieces, it was easy to believe that _this_ was just another unspeakable casualty, another part of himself that he would never get back.  It was a loss so personal, so _private,_  that he hadn’t been able to tell anyone, deflecting the tactful questions from his doctors and therapist as they skirted around the subject, obviously waiting for him to disclose this new deficiency.

And now, like a gift from above, it was back.  His sexual arousal had just been dormant, not irrevocably lost, and that knowledge is enough to send Bucky’s head spinning.  He lets himself melt into the mattress, luxuriating in the almost forgotten sensation of repletion.

Later, maybe, he’ll start to wonder about how it was Clint and only Clint who was the focus of his fantasies.  He’ll try to figure out if he really wants something like that with Clint, or if Clint just represents something to his barely-conscious mind.  He’ll try to determine if it’s even healthy for him to get involved with someone so soon in his recovery.

For now, though, he pushes all those thoughts aside, and allows himself time to just wallow in the almost-forgotten feeling of satisfaction.

* * *

Clint looks down into the soapy water as he washes the dishes, trying not to frown.  Bucky has been acting weird all day.

First he slept late — so late that he was just getting up by the time Clint was leaving for the range.  He emerged from his room still looking sleep-warmed and dopey, his movements slow and languid. Clint had to brew his own morning coffee for once, which is just a travesty.  It never tastes as good as when Bucky brews it.

Even then, Bucky had been a little off — his heavy-lidded gaze avoiding Clint’s eyes, his sleep-sluggish body startling a little when Clint brushed past him.  It seemed like a step backward.

Even after they were both home, Bucky still seemed to be weirdly awkward around Clint.  He disappeared to his room for a long while until dinnertime. Then he turned the t.v. on during dinner, carrying his plate over to the couch and pretending to be disproportionately engrossed in an episode of _Dog Cops_ that Clint knows he’s seen at least ten times before.

Oh well.  Maybe he had a nightmare that brought up some stuff, or something came up in therapy.  Even though Bucky has been more at ease every day, Clint knows that recovery has its ups and downs.  He’ll just give Bucky some space.

Clint dries his hands on a dishtowel and decides to mess with a new arrow he’s been working on, one that’s designed to curve.  It’s his goal to someday hit a target around a blind corner, just for fun.

Bucky is on the couch, nose buried in a book, but he looks up as Clint gathers up his bow and quiver.

“You mind?” Clint asks, holding up the bow, and Bucky shakes his head, burying his face back in the book.  Ooookay.

Clint starts at about a 20 degree angle to the target.  It’s a bit tricky, making sure the uneven fletching is on the correct side, but at least he hits the cork wall on the first shot.  He adjusts his stance to about 25 degrees, and tries again. There, that one hit the target. Maybe a little more follow-through....

He’s been shooting for about five minutes when he feels the hair on the back of his neck start to prickle with awareness.  He glances to the side and catches Bucky watching him. Bucky immediately looks back at his book, but Clint realizes that he hasn’t heard him turn a page in all this time.  Hmmmm.

Clint starts again, but now he can’t lose himself in the easy rhythm of shooting.  His whole body tingles with awareness, feeling Bucky’s gaze like a weight across his shoulders.

He finally breaks and cuts his eyes sideways again, catching Bucky staring open-mouthed, seemingly focused on Clint’s hands where they grip the riser and pull back on the string.  And...oh. Okay. Maybe this is something Bucky has wanted, and just been too shy to ask for.

“You wanna take a whirl?” Clint asks.  “I could teach ya.”

“What?”  Bucky stares at Clint wide-eyed, his cheeks reddening.  Clint replays what he said in his head, trying to figure out what could have elicited that reaction, but comes up blank.

“You wanna learn to shoot?” he clarifies, holding up the bow.  “It’s just...you looked interested.” Well, now he feels like a dummy.  Maybe Bucky was just spacing out.

“Oh.”  Bucky puts the book aside.  “Oh, yeah.” He doesn’t make a move, though, and they stare at each other awkwardly for another long moment.

“Well, come on then,” Clint finally says, and Bucky startles again, rising hurriedly to his feet.

Clint gets started.  He can run through the Archery 101 stuff on autopilot, and Bucky is an easier student than most given his expertise in rifle shooting.  He already knows his dominant eye and the basics of stance, and given that Bucky’s only a few inches shorter than Clint they have a similar draw length.  Clint has a bow with a lower draw weight that he uses to get back up to speed when he’s recovering from an injury that’ll work fine for Bucky, especially now that he’s been rebuilding muscle in his physical therapy sessions.

“Let me know if anything hurts,” Clint warns as he fits the armguard over Bucky's prosthesis, and Bucky nods.  The armguard is probably overkill, but Clint sure doesn't want to be on the hook for damaging that pricey StarkTech. 

Clint finishes talking through the basics, and then guides Bucky in front of him.  Bucky acts a little spooked when Clint first starts adjusting his stance but quickly seems to relax, soaking up the information like a sponge.  

"Don't just use your arms when you draw.  You use your whole shoulders and back," Clint said, drawing his palm down the muscles of Bucky's back to illustrate as he usually does at this point in his lessons, but...damn.  Bucky feels good beneath his palms, warm and solid.  Clint has never taught someone he's attracted to, he's not used to being so aware of where he's touching.

"Twist your hips a little more.  Just...there."  Clint forces himself to keep his touch brief, professional.  He desperately avoids thinking about other situations in which he might hold Bucky's hips tight in his grasp, tries to keep his eyes from lingering on how Bucky's thighs look in those goddamned skinny jeans of his.  Dammit, this is for Bucky — not an excuse for Clint to get handsy, as much as he might want to.

"Go ahead, now.  Draw.  Sight.  Breathing deep and even.  Take the shot in between breaths, just like with a rifle." 

Bucky’s a natural. His metal arm is rock-solid, and his sniper skills make it second nature for him to relax into the shot, controlling his breathing.

Clint has him draw again and makes a few corrections, lifting his elbow, adjusting his anchor point closer to the corner of his full lips.  Clint can’t help licking his own lips, looking at Bucky’s pout of concentration. And damn, but this new haircut takes some getting used to.  The long layers emphasize the sharp cut of Bucky’s cheekbones, and the firmness of his jaw.

“Here?” Bucky says, and Clint blinks back to awareness.  

“Yeah...just wondering if we can take you straight to an under-jaw anchor point,” he bullshits.  “It’s more advanced, but…” _It’s an excuse for me to have been staring at your jaw for an absurdly long time_ , he finishes in his head.

“We’ll stick with this for now,” he backpedals.  He comes around to Bucky’s front, cupping his jaw to raise his head a little.  Bucky shies back just a fraction, his eyes darting up to meet Clint's, and Clint freezes.

“Too close?” he asks, but Bucky pulls in a slow breath.

“Nah,” he says.  

Clint takes a half-step back anyway, putting one hand on Bucky's metal shoulder and the other on this wrist to help him reach out, making sure the shoulder drops naturally.

“Try again,” he says.

Bucky’s storm-grey eyes narrow, and this time his arrow falls just a hair shy of dead center.

“You’re fuckin’ amazing at this,” Clint breathes.  “I gotta get you to the range sometime.”

And, oh — Bucky dips his head, smiling shyly, and Clint feels something turn over in his chest.   _Goddammit, Clint.  Pull it together._

“Lemme show you a thumb draw,” he says, trying to focus while in the back of his mind he’s too busy cursing his stupid, vulnerable heart.


	12. Aw, Steve, No

Bucky’s staring again.  Clint can see him clearly in the reflection on the microwave door.

He’s been doing that off and on for the past few days, and just as it has every time, it sets fear and hope wrestling in Clint’s stomach like a couple of aggravated weasels.

His fear is that Bucky has realized that Clint has developed Feelings, and is wondering what in the hell to do about it.  That he’s trying to figure out how to let Clint down easy, or — even worse — how to tell him that he’s moving out because Clint is making him uncomfortable.

His hope is that...  Christ, he can hardly admit this even to himself, but his _hope_ is that Bucky has developed Feelings of his own.  Sometimes it seems that way. He catches Bucky looking at him with this soft expression on his face.  Catches him staring at his hands, or his shoulders, or even his ass that one time the drawstring on his sweatpants broke.

Either way, he doesn’t know what in the hell to do about it.  It seems to him that it’s up to Bucky to broach the subject, and Bucky isn’t doing much.  Except for the staring. Which he’s doing again, as a matter of fact, and doesn’t he know the TV reflects back too?  This whole place is full of damn shiny surfaces, and Clint doesn’t know whether to thank or curse them.

As Clint is still pondering this question, teetering more toward 60% thanking and 40% cursing because even a dimly reflected glimpse of a weirdly-staring Bucky is still a glimpse of Bucky, Bucky’s phone buzzes, and they both startle a bit.  

Bucky uses his phone to look up YouTube repair videos and Pinterest recipes, no one ever actually calls or texts him on it.  Becca’s residency schedule is so unpredictable she always emails, Steve Skypes from his deployment at pre-scheduled times, and Bucky calls his ma at his sister’s house like clockwork every Sunday.

Clint drifts closer, concerned by how Bucky is scowling down at the screen.

“Everything okay?” he finally asks.

“Yeah.  A text from Steve.”  Bucky puts the phone aside but the frown stays on his face.  “His unit got called back early. He’s back stateside on Thursday, and then he’s got a week of leave before he heads to Lejeune for training.  He wants to visit.”

When Bucky tells stories about growing up with Steve he makes it sound like Steve hung the moon.  Clint knows things have been a little more stilted since Bucky was injured, but he still can’t figure out this reaction.

Unless…

“Uh... you want me to clear out for a little while?  Give you guys some time alone?”

“What?”  Bucky’s expression has progressed to that deep divot between his eyebrows.

“I just meant —” _Stop talking, Clint!_ “— I mean, if you guys were, um, I didn’t know if you guys had a thing going, or —”

Uh oh.  Bucky has actually gotten to his feet, stalking towards Clint.  He leans his elbows on the breakfast bar.

“Clint.  Are you asking if me ‘n Steve are fucking?”  Clint can’t read his tone at all.

“No?”  Clint busies himself with the coffeemaker, even though there’s a fresh pot ready.  “I mean, it’s none of my business,” he backpedals.

“Uh huh,” Bucky says flatly.  

Clint sneaks a glance, and is relieved to find that Bucky seems more amused than angry.  

“Steve ‘n I are like brothers,” Bucky finally says.  “It’s never been like that.”

And... wow.  There’s a weight off of Clint’s shoulders that he hadn’t realized he had been carrying.  He is suddenly a hundred times more charitably disposed toward Steve than he used to be.

Clint stops pretending to make coffee and leans back against the counter.  “But you don’t wanna see him?”

“I do, it’s just.”  Bucky stares down at his metal hand, flexing and releasing it while he’s thinking.  “He’s not handling this —” Bucky gestures to his metal arm “— all that well. Thinks he talked me into enlisting, so it’s his fault, an’ it shoulda been him instead.”  

“Oh.”  Yeah, that does sound awkward.

“My therapist says it’s for him to figure out, but I just — I wish he would do it on his own time, ya know?  I just wanna hang out with my friend, I don’t wanna spend a week processing his feelings about it, or whatever the fuck.  I’m still figurin’ out my own.”

“Can you tell him that?”

Bucky frowns down at his hand again.  “Not over Skype, not while he’s still deployed.  But... yeah. Maybe when I see him.” He looks up imploringly.  “Will you stick around? I dunno, maybe buffer a little? I don’t think he’s gonna start cryin’ if you’re here, at least.”

“Yeah, of course.”  Some of the tension melts from Bucky’s shoulders, and Clint stifles the urge to vault the breakfast bar and hug the shit out of him.  “Whatever you need.”

* * *

Bucky’s nervousness about Steve’s visit manifests as compulsive cooking and cleaning.  The refrigerator holds enough food for an army and even Lucky is clean, brushed, and smelling April-fresh.  

Every once in awhile Bucky pulls a piece of paper out of his back pocket and looks it over.  Clint knows it’s a list of things he wants to say to Steve that he worked up with his therapist, and he hopes to God that Steve takes it well.  Assuming Bucky even works up the courage to talk to him about it.

With all this preparation, Bucky, Clint, and Lucky are all nervous wrecks by the time Steve calls to be buzzed into the building.

Clint signals a very excited Lucky to his bed so he won’t jump all over their guest, letting Bucky get the door.

“Stevie!” Bucky says, sounding genuinely happy, and then he’s engulfed by one of the goddamn biggest guys Clint has ever seen.

Bucky always talks about Steve as a kid, when he was apparently skinny and asthmatic.  Clint knew he hit a late growth spurt and his health issues improved enough for him to enlist, but he’s only seen his face on Skype.  He was not prepared. The guy is a built like a brick shithouse.

And... oh, shit, he’s crying _already_ , Bucky’s face clasped between his massive hands.  

“You look so good,” Steve is sniffling.  “I mean, I saw the new haircut and all on Skype, but you look — you look _good_.”

Steve pulls Bucky back into the hug for a very long time.  Eventually Clint can see that Bucky is trying to wriggle free, but Steve doesn’t seem to notice.

And, crap.  This is probably where Clint is supposed to do something.  

“Hey.  I’m Clint!” he says cheerily.

Steve looks up, wipes his nose on his sleeve, and then strides forward to envelope Clint into a hug as well.

Clint does _not_ squeak in surprise, it’s just that Steve is a very firm hugger.  And, a very _long_ hugger, apparently.

“Nice to meet you, Clint,” Steve says without letting up on the hug.  “Thanks for taking care of Bucky.”

And, shit.  Clint knows that’s not gonna go over well.

“He’s not my fuckin’ _babysitter_ , Steve,” Bucky says sharply.

Steve finally lets Clint go.  “Yeah, I know, it’s just — “ He drops his duffel, which is almost as big as he is.  He manages to draw Bucky over to the couch with him, urging him to sit with a hand on his shoulder, and Clint is impressed with the progress Bucky’s made that he hasn’t taken a swing at Steve for that level of manhandling.

“— you look healthy, you look like you’ve been sleeping.  How’s therapy going?”

“Uh…”

 _Jesus Christ,_ Clint thinks.  Steve’s earnest concern is an unstoppable force.  Time to send in the big guns.

Clint makes a quick hand signal and Lucky jolts out of his dog bed like he heard a starting pistol, barely touching the ground before he leaps straight into Steve’s lap.

“Oh!  Hey!” Steve is laughing as Lucky licks his face all over, squirming and stomping all over his lap.  “Long time no see, Arrow.”

“He goes by Lucky now,” Bucky says, throwing Clint a grateful glance for the interruption.  “He’s looking good, right? Limps just a little, but healthy as a horse. And he doesn’t seem to miss the eye.”

“Yeah, he looks real good.”  Steve throws Bucky a sideye. “Am I allowed to thank Clint for taking care of _him?”_

Well, that’s a surprise.  Steve’s a lot sassier than Clint expected.  

“Jerk,” Bucky says, but he’s smiling, looking more relaxed.  

“Listen, Buck.”  Steve scoots in closer, and even Lucky makes way, jumping off the couch and making his way to Clint to get some pats for his good behavior.  “I know I’ve said it before, but I need to tell you how sorry I am that you got hurt. I never woulda enlisted if —”

Bucky sends Clint a look over Steve’s shoulder that clearly says _Help me_ , and Clint throws his hands up in frustration.  Maybe they should have actually come up with a game plan here, because Clint doesn’t have many strategies for distraction except throwing a punch, flirting, or…

Oh, wait.  There’s an idea.

Clint runs through everything Bucky has told him about Steve, and lands on three pertinent facts that lead to one conclusion.

_Fact One:  Steve Rogers always has something to prove._

Clint sidles closer.  “Where are my manners?” he interrupts brightly.  “You’d think I was raised in the circus or somethin’.  Steve, can I get you somethin’ to drink?” He moves toward the kitchen.  “We got beer, or we have — wait, that’s probably not a good idea.”

Steve’s chin lifts like a dog scenting a sizzling T-bone.  “What’s not a good idea?”

“Oh, it’s just —”  Clint reaches into the freezer and pulls out the vodka he keeps on hand for when Nat unexpectedly drops in.  “I have this really good vodka, but I know how it is when you’re deployed, your tolerance goes to shit, so maybe we should play it safe and stick to the soft stuff.”

Steve looks like he’s on the fence, so Clint goes for broke.  “I mean, Bucky warned me that you have kind of a, um, _delicate_ _constitution…”_

_Fact Two:  Steve Rogers never backs down from a challenge._

“That punk!” Steve jumps to his feet, striding forward until he’s bellied up to the breakfast bar.  “I can hold my liquor with the best of ‘em!”

“Well, if you’re sure.”  Clint is already pouring the vodka into two tumblers.  Behind Steve’s beefy shoulder he sees Bucky’s confused expression change to narrow-eyed comprehension, but he ignores it.  It’s not like Bucky seemed to have a better plan.

“Cheers,” he says, clinking his tumbler against Steve’s and knocking it back in three big gulps.

Steve’s eyes narrow, and he does the same.  His eyes are watering and he’s wheezing a little at the end of it, but he does it.

“Not too much for you to handle?” Clint says, his voice mostly concern, just barely tinged with condescension.  

“Of course not,” Steve growls, holding the glass out for Clint to refill.  

_Fact Three:  Steve Rogers is a happy drunk._

* * *

“And then I convinced him that The Cylone wasn’t gonna be too bad, because — what was it?”

Steve is giggling like a maniac.  “Because the centrifugal force counteracted the forward motion —”

“The centrifugal force!  That was it!” Bucky’s only been drinking beer, but he’s giggling almost as much as Steve is.  “And this dumbass _bought_ it, and —”

“Hey, you were always the science guy!” Steve protests.  “I figured it was somethin’ you learned in one of your science fiction books —”

“— and Stevie was almost too short to ride, so we fluffed up his hair real tall with hair cream ‘n then I hadta distract the guy while Steve got up on his tiptoes —”

“And then you practically hadta carry me off afterwards, ‘n I threw up all over your new shoes —”

“I thought your ma was gonna kill us _both!_ —”

They are falling all over each other on the sofa laughing, and it makes Clint’s chest feel warm and full to see them.   

Finally Bucky pulls it together, wiping his eyes and sighing.  “I’m gettin’ another beer. You guys want anything?”

Steve shakes his head and so does Clint, so Bucky gathers up the last of the dishes and heads to the kitchen.

Steve pulls himself upright too, holding his side.  He seems to be sobering up, because his eyes are bright and keen when they meet Clint’s.

“Thanks,” Steve says, soft enough that Bucky won’t hear.  “I didn’t know how to help him, and you did.”

Clint rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed.  “It was mostly Lucky, I think,” he finally says.

Steve’s eyes brighten even further at that.  

“Hey,” he says, his voice suddenly boomingly loud.  “Do you wanna know why Bucky named him Arrow?”

Clint hears something clatter to the ground in the kitchen, and then the pounding of footsteps.  He stands up quickly. Then he does a quick calculation and pulls the coffee table out of the way too.

“It’s because —” Steve starts, a goddamn _twinkle_ in his eye, and yep — here comes Bucky, charging at Steve full speed, tackling him so hard that the whole couch flips over.

It devolves into a combination of wrestling match and tickle fight, until finally Bucky gets Steve in a headlock and Steve is wheezing so hard with laughter he’s bright red.

“Okay!  Okay, uncle!” Steve chokes out between giggles.

Clint helps haul them both to their feet and set the couch to rights, and now Bucky and Steve are both laughing their asses off again.

“I haven’t — seen —- so mad — since —”

“You — as if — I got _plenty_ of stories — gonna play dirty —”

Lucky is out of his mind with excitement, stomping all over the two of them, until finally Clint clicks his tongue and sends him for his leash.

“I better take this guy out before it gets too much later,” he says.  “Bucky — wanna come with?” It’s probably rude to even ask, but he made Bucky a promise.

“Nah.”  Bucky’s resting back against the couch, and he smiles at Clint, slow and soft.  “Thanks, but I think we’re good here.”

* * *

The door has barely closed behind Clint and Lucky when Steve turns his head toward Bucky and smiles like he’s up to something.

“So how long has _that_ been goin’ on?”

Bucky feels himself blush.  “I dunno what you’re talking about.”

“Riiiiight.”  

Bucky rests his head back against the couch with a sigh, avoiding Steve’s eyes.  “No, but really. We’re not — I mean, we haven’t —” He gives up, starting again.  “I’m not saying I haven’t thought about it, but is it even a good idea?”

When he finally manages to look, Steve’s expression is thoughtful.  “Well, you already live together. That makes it a little complicated.  But Bucky —” Steve looks a little wistful now. “You’re happy. That’s a big deal.  That’s something worth takin’ a risk on, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.  Maybe it is.”  Bucky wishes he sounded more sure.  It’s just — it’s scary, is what it is.  It shouldn’t be, it’s just _Clint_ , but then again, _it’s Clint._  Bucky’s never done anything but casual, and this feels as far from that as it can possibly get.

“Besides, you gotta put the poor guy out of his misery sometime,” Steve says, bumping Bucky’s shoulder with his.  “The way he looks at you — I thought pink velvet hearts were gonna come shooting out of his eyes.”

“He does not!”  

“Like hell he doesn’t,” Steve says firmly.  “And you’re just as bad. Jesus, you always tell me that _I_ never notice when someone’s flirting with me —”

“‘Cause you _don’t_ ,” Bucky protests.  “And Clint doesn’t flirt — I mean, not really.  I don’t think.”

“This is worse than I thought,” Steve groans.  “You two are in a goddamned Victorian novel, all repressed feelings and lingering glances and hopeless pining.  Jesus, Bucky, does he even know that you’re bi?”

“He — I must have —”  Bucky forces himself to stop and actually think about it.  Oh hell, has it actually just not come up?

Steve seems to read the truth in Bucky’s silence.  “Fuckin’ _hopeless_ ,” he says.  

* * *

By the time Clint and Lucky get back, Clint can hear Steve in Bucky’s bathroom, brushing his teeth, while Bucky makes up the couch with some spare sheets.

Clint hangs up Lucky’s leash and then helps him get the corners tucked in.  

“Everythin’ go okay?”

Bucky’s smile is warm and genuine.  “Yeah. So much better than I expected.”  He stands back from the couch, running a hand through his hair to push it back off his face.  “Thanks again, for running interference. It probably wasn’t fair of me to ask it of you, but — I appreciate it.”

“Any time.”  Clint stares at Bucky for a moment.  His cheeks are flushed, his hair tousled.  He looks fucking _delicious._

“Well, I better get to bed,” Clint finally says.  “Still gotta go to the range tomorrow.”

“Oh, yeah.”  Bucky looks like he’s going to say something, but then seems to change his mind.  “G’night, then.”

“Night.”  Clint clicks his tongue and signals Lucky to bed.  He’s halfway to his room, when —

“Clint?”

Clint turns and realizes that Bucky has followed him.  He’s leaning one shoulder against the wall of the hallway, looking uncertain.

“Yeah?”

Bucky looks down, and then up again, seeming to decide something.  “You wanna know why I named him Arrow?”

Clint doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t that.  “Yeah, sure,” he says anyway. He wants to know anything Bucky will tell him.

“When Stevie and I were kids, we were really into superheroes.  Steve —” The flush on his cheeks is getting brighter, spreading to the tips of his ears.  “Steve had a crush on Superman, but me — I had a crush on the Green Arrow.”

It takes a second for the penny to drop, and when it does Clint feels his mouth go dry.  “Is that so?” he finally manages.

“Yeah.”  And this is a smile he’s never seen from Bucky before.  It’s slow and wicked and deliberate, and it makes Bucky look like he has some fucking _Ideas_.

“Guess I’ve always had a thing for archers,” Bucky says, driving the point home in a low rasp that goes straight to Clint’s cock.

Clint knows he’s just staring like a dummy, open-mouthed, and then the water turns off in Bucky’s bathroom, the door creaking open.

Bucky straightens up.  “Well, goodnight then,” he says, as casual as can be, like he hasn’t just rocked Clint’s whole world.

Clint stumbles to his room, closing the door behind himself and falling back on the bed to stare dazedly at the ceiling.

 _“Fuck,”_ he says.

Lucky whuffs softly in agreement.


	13. Aw, Military, No

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like "Coffee" deserves its own character tag in this fic. :-D

Clint blinks himself awake the next morning, half wondering if he dreamed it all.  

Bucky’s shy smile when he hands him his coffee is a revelation though, and Clint can’t keep the goofy grin off his face.

Steve has apparently taken Lucky out on an early run, and so they have their morning coffee as usual.  Except that now Clint is hyperaware of every movement of his body in relation to Bucky’s.

Bucky’s fingers wrap around Clint’s as he refills his mug, and it seems like this time it’s not just because he’s too familiar with Clint’s early-morning klutziness.  His shoulder rubs against Clint’s as they pass each other in the narrow galley kitchen. Have they always touched so much? Every time Bucky brushes against Clint, his heart jumps in his chest.  

It’s like Bucky has flipped some switch in Clint.  Now that Clint knows he might be interested every chaste touch, every lingering glance, makes his throat dry, sets his pulse to thrumming in his veins.

Clint thinks about saying something, doing something, but then Steve is back.

They sit around the breakfast bar and have eggs and toast, and soon enough it’s time for Clint to head out to the range.

Clint is almost out the door when Bucky calls him.

He turns around and Bucky is bringing him the purple travel mug full of coffee, which Clint carefully prepared and then forgot _again_.

He puts it into Clint’s hands and then they stand in the doorway, staring goofily at each other for a moment.

Bucky starts to lean in and then pauses.  Clint can only stare, heart in his throat.  Bucky gets a determined look on his face, tucks his hair behind his ear, and then presses forward, pressing a chaste kiss to Clint’s cheek.

Clint turns his head to chase Bucky’s lips but he’s too slow — Bucky is already pulling back, a slow smile spreading across his face.

Clint makes a faint whimpering sound.  He’d like to pretend it came from Lucky, but the way Bucky’s grin widens he obviously knows better.

“See ya later, Haystack,” Bucky drawls, and Clint wants him so bad that his palms itch.

Bucky must see it in his face.  His eyes darken, gaze darting down to Clint’s mouth before he slowly, deliberately closes the door in his face.

Clint groans, taking a moment to breathe deeply before he forces himself into motion.  Bucky Barnes is a total fucking tease and it’s _amazing_.

He’s revising his opinion on cheek kisses, too.  Not weird at all.

* * *

Clint comes home from the range, tired and sweaty.  He opens the door and pauses in the doorway, frozen in uncertainty.  Steve and Bucky are both red-eyed, Steve wiping his face on his sleeve.

Then Bucky looks up and the smile he gives Clint is full of relief and happiness, and so Clint comes in, busying himself in the kitchen grabbing a glass of water, and pretending not to see how Steve takes the crumpled list gently from Bucky’s metal hand, smoothing and folding it carefully before putting it in his shirt pocket.

They’ve composed themselves a little more by the time Clint comes back, but he figures giving them a little more space wouldn’t hurt.  

“I’m gonna go shower.  Cookout tonight,” he reminds them both before draining his water in a few long gulps.  “You comin’, Steve?”

“Course he is,” Bucky says at the same time that Steve says, “I dunno —”

Indignation colors Bucky’s voice.  “You gotta come! You gotta meet everybody —”

Steve seems to be panicking a little.  “Isn’t it potluck? I didn’t make anything.”

“No one’s gonna care,” Clint says.  “But there’s a liquor store on the corner, you can grab a six pack if you’re worried.”

And that’s how Steve Rogers shows up at the weekly rooftop cookout, a goddamn _keg_ over his shoulder, and becomes the instant favorite of everyone in the building.

* * *

Clint finally finishes making the rounds.  He refills a couple of Solo cups with beer and goes to join Steve where he’s sitting on one of the rickety lawn chairs Clint hauled up to the roof.  It’s a goddamn miracle that the whole contraption hasn’t collapsed under his bulk.

“Doin’ alright?” Clint asks, and Steve smiles sunnily, taking the offered beer as his eyes wander past Clint’s shoulder.

Clint follows his line of sight.  Bucky is talking to Aimee and Grill.  Louis toddles up to him and without pausing in the conversation Bucky reaches down, swinging him up to ride on his shoulders.

The change in Bucky has been so gradual that Clint hadn’t really seen the scope of it, but now, seeing it all through Steve’s eyes, it’s pretty phenomenal.  

Bucky seems fully at ease despite the number of people.  Over the last few weeks, between the weekly cookouts and making repairs, Bucky has gotten to know everyone in the building, and seems to have won them all over in his own shy, taciturn way.

Clint knows that Bucky still has his bad days.  He still struggles with the pain, and the nightmares, and the days where he has trouble getting out of bed.  But they’re rarer and rarer lately, and the man they are watching now is about as far from the twitchy, shell-shocked stranger that Clint met on a park bench as he could possibly be.

Steve seems to be thinking along the same lines.  “I wasn’t sure — it wasn’t just the injury. We both signed up straight outta high school.  I didn’t know if Bucky could find a place for himself outside the service. But —” Steve shakes his head. “He belongs here more’n he ever did there.”

Clint has wondered.  It could have been the trauma, but Bucky never talks about any aspect of his service — no military buddies he wants to reconnect with outside of Steve, no stories about the time he spent serving.

They both contemplate that a little longer.  Steve looks a little pensive, and Clint wonders if he thought that he and Bucky would be career military together.

“How about you?”  He knows Steve enough by now to know he’ll tell him to go to hell if he’s prying.  “Are you in it for life?”

“Hell, no.”  Steve takes a big gulp of his beer, and then wipes his mouth.  He frowns, as if trying to formulate his words. “When I signed up I thought I knew what I was fighting for.  But the higher I go in the chain of command, the less clear it seems. I got eight more months, and then I’m out.  Life’s too fucking short.”

He looks around the rooftop, eyes lingering for a moment on Deke and his new boyfriend.  They are holding hands, talking to Simone.

Steve shoots Clint a sideways glance, and then looks away, taking an overly-casual gulp of his beer.  “Military life’s especially hard when you’re queer.”

Clint takes a long gulp of his own beer.  It’s not that he’s surprised, he’s pretty good about not assuming, but that’s a lot of trust Steve is putting in him.  

“Yeah, I might know a little somethin’ about that.”  Clint didn’t follow the traditional path, but SHIELD was still military in every way that counts.

The last bit of tension melts from Steve’s shoulders, and he smiles.  “Figured you might.” He rests his head back. “If Bucky can find a place for himself outside the service, I guess I can too.”

“What do you think you’ll do?”

Steve’s expression turns a weird combination of wistful and embarrassed.  “I always liked drawing and painting, in high school. Maybe I’ll give art a real try.”

Clint thinks it over.  “I hear northern light is the best to paint by.”

“I guess?”  Steve lifts his head, brow furrowing.

“Just thinkin’...we got an apartment still vacant on the north-east corner of the building.  Good windows. Needs some work, but eight months is a hell of a lead time, 'specially if I put Bucky on the case.”

Steve’s mouth is hanging open.  “You’re serious? You — you don’t have to do that, Clint.”

Clint smirks, knocking his Solo cup against Steve’s.  “‘Barton’s Home for Ex-Military Assholes’. I like the sound of it.”  And he does. Hell, maybe at this rate he can even talk Nat into retiring.  “Plus, if you think Bucky’s gonna let you live anywhere other than Brooklyn once you’re outta the service, you got another thing comin’.”

Steve laughs, loud and hearty.  “I guess you have a point there.”

They sit in comfortable silence for awhile longer.  The sun is setting, casting a golden-pink glow across everything.  Clint looks over and finds Bucky’s eyes on them both. He toasts him with his cup, and Bucky smiles.  And the sunset is pretty, but it’s nothing on Bucky when he smiles.

 


	14. Aw, Tony, No

 

By the time the rooftop party breaks up, Steve has hit his happy drunk stage, and is bound and determined to drag Bucky and Clint out on the town.

“C’mon, Buck,” he says, pulling out the puppy-dog eyes.  “You can’t let a guy spend his whole leave without hittin’ up the bars, can you?”

His enthusiasm is relentless.  Bucky finally looks at Clint and shrugs.  He looks a little anxious but not opposed, and Clint thinks it over.

“There’s a neighborhood bar, shouldn’t be too crowded even on a Friday if you don’t mind that it’s kind of a dive.  They got good wings.”

“Didja hear that, Buck?   _Wings!_ ” Steve says in utter delight, like Bucky hadn’t just seen him eat two hamburgers, a hot dog, and a giant pile of potato salad, and Bucky knows when he’s lost a battle.

* * *

Bucky’s a little nervous.  He’s getting better about being around people, but a crowded bar is a level up from anything he’s tried.

Clint’s right, though.  The place he suggested — _Luke’s_ , the sputtering neon sign announces — is not too bad for a Friday night.  The music’s not too loud either, just a background hum of soul quiet enough to talk over.

There’s quite a few people crowded around the bar, but the bartender is big enough to tower over most of them.  

“Barton,” he calls out, his voice a bass rumble like a truck passing by.  “Long time no see.”

“Cage,” Clint greets, raising a hand in return.  “Missed your ugly mug.” He can probably only get away with it because the bartender is one of the handsomest men Bucky has ever seen in his life.

He leads Bucky and Steve to a corner booth, where none of them will have their back to the room, and Bucky wonders if it’s for his benefit or if this is Clint’s usual spot.  He seems to be a regular here, although as far as Bucky knows he’s never come here in the time they’ve been living together. Bucky wonders if he’s been inadvertently cramping Clint’s style, making Clint stay home on his account.

“You come here a lot?” he asks, sliding into the booth next to Steve.

“Used to,” Clint says.  He smiles down at Bucky, soft and private.  “Haven’t needed the company lately.”

And...yeah.  That’s a good answer.

“Pitcher okay?” Clint asks, and then heads off to order when they nod.  

Bucky leans back in the booth, letting the mellow music wash over him.  Today has been exhausting, but in a good kind of way.

He watches Clint as he slides through the crowd to the bar.  He’s a good head taller than everyone except the bartender, his t-shirt tight across his wide shoulders and clinging to his narrow waist.  He’s wearing jeans for once, and his ass is a work of fucking art.

“You’ve got it bad,” Steve mutters, and Bucky kicks him.  Still, he can’t look away.

Two young women come out of the restroom, and Bucky sees them elbow each other when they catch sight of Clint.  They make a beeline, squeezing through the crowd until they’re at his side.

The short brunette is the bolder of the two.  She says something to Clint that Bucky can’t hear, leaning her body against the bar, angling her cleavage directly into Clint’s line of sight as he looks down to answer.

Steve snorts at Bucky’s side.  “Go on, then,” he says. “Go keep him company.”

Bucky hesitates, but then the woman reaches out and places a hand on Clint’s bicep, and Bucky is out of his seat before he knows it.

He glares the person on Clint’s left out of the way, and slides up beside him just as Clint is patiently lifting the woman’s hand off him by the wrist.

“— here with friends —” Clint is saying, casting a glance at the booth and then craning his head around when he sees Bucky’s missing.  Bucky bumps Clint with his shoulder and Clint turns, smiling wide when he sees him.

“Thought I’d help you carry stuff,” Bucky says.

“Oh, great!”

Bucky feels disproportionately gleeful about the way Clint puts his back to the disappointed young woman without a second thought. “Order should be up soon, I told Luke to hold off on the pitcher until Jess had the wings ready.”

Luke sees them waiting and sets them up with a couple of beers anyway.  “On the house for gettin’ Barton back in here,” he says with a wink at Bucky.

The crowd thins a little and they manage to snag two barstools, sipping at their beers while they wait for the food.  Clint is people-watching and Bucky is mostly watching Clint, thinking about kissing him this morning and how soon he might be able to do it again.

“Get a load of this guy,” Clint mutters, his eyes on the door.

Bucky casts a casual glance over his shoulder.  The guy who’s come into the bar looks as out of place as a swan in a pigsty.  He’s wearing a three-piece suit that’s probably worth more than this whole bar, with facial hair so sharply groomed that it looks spray-painted on.  

Bucky looks back at Clint, returning his smirk as the guy makes his way to the bar.  Out of the corner of his eye he sees the guy notice him.

“Hey,” the guy says.  “That’s one of —”

Out of nowhere, he _grabs_ Bucky’s left arm.  Bucky startles back so hard that his barstool goes flying, and he has to clutch the bar with his right arm to keep from going down with it.

Quicker than he can even see, Clint snatches the guy’s hand off of Bucky’s arm, wrenching it behind his back and using it as leverage to slam him chest-down on the bar.  Bucky’s beer overturns into the bowl of peanuts, the spill spreading down the bar toward the guy’s designer suit.

“Ow ow _ow!”_ the guy is saying.  “Jesus _fuck_ , relax, will you? I was just saying that arm was one of mine!  I’m Tony Stark, I designed the thing!”

Bucky’s still shaking with the sudden surge of adrenaline, his stomach churning.  The bar has gone silent except for the low thrum of music, and he can feel everyone staring.  Luke has his hand under the bar but keeps whatever weapon is there out of sight, and Bucky thinks wildly that Clint has probably bought himself a fair bit of cred as a regular here for the bartender to wait and see how this plays out.

Suddenly Steve is there, using his bulk as a shield between Bucky and the rest of the bar.  

“It’s fine, everyone.  Just a misunderstanding,” he says in that all-American I’m-in-command voice of his.  “Clint, let him up,” he hisses.

Clint looks to Bucky, and he manages a nod.  Clint loosens up on the guy’s arm, letting him stand.

The guy pulls free the rest of the way with a huff, straightening his jacket and shooting his cuffs, carelessly showing off diamonds as big as dice in his cufflinks.

“We’re very sorry, sir,” Steve says earnestly.

Clint is not so conciliatory. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you to keep your hands to yourself?” he grouses, but he moves away, close to Bucky’s side.

“You okay, Buck?” he asks, within touching distance but careful not to touch.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, his voice coming out embarrassingly raspy.  He still feels shaken, his stomach tied into knots. The bar is suddenly too loud, too warm.  He blinks, realizing his eyes have started to tear up.

“Let’s go,” Clint says, and Bucky nods gratefully.

“Aw, don’t go!”  Stark looks like a kid who just got his toy pulled away.  “I’m sorry for grabbing, for real. Why don’t I buy you two —” his eyes skim over to Steve and then stop for a long moment, looking him up, and down, and then up again “— and your incredibly handsome friend the next round, alright?”

“We don’t have to,” Clint says immediately.  

Bucky manages a few deep breaths.  The background hum of conversation in the bar picks up again.  As his panic fades, he’s already starting to feel foolish about the whole thing.  He looks away from Stark, back at Clint’s face and just like that, his embarrassment disappears.  

In Clint’s expression he sees understanding, and comfort, and just — _everything_.  Everything that he wants, and jesus christ, what in the hell has he been waiting for?

“Steve’ll stay,” Bucky finds himself saying, still lost in the warmth of Clint’s blue eyes.

“What?” Steve says at that same time as Stark says “Yay!”

Clint looks a little confused, but Luke says something to him, and he turns his attention away for a moment.

Bucky looks at Steve, willing him to understand.  “If it’s okay with you, just for a little while. I wanna talk to Clint.  Alone.”

“Oh.”  Steve’s furrowed brow clears.  “Oh!” He’s fighting a smile now.  “You’re sure?”

Bucky nods, a smile starting to tug at the corner of his own mouth.  “Sure as I’ve ever been.”

And it’s true.  The knots in his stomach have disappeared, replaced by a growing warmth.  He suddenly knows exactly what he wants, and he doesn’t want to waste another minute.

“Okay, then.”  The pitcher and wings have arrived, and Steve shoves the basket of wings into Stark’s hands.  He almost drops them before recovering. “Mr. Stark?” Steve gestures toward the booth.

“Call me Tony,” the guy says as he follows Steve, trying to be subtle about checking out his ass and totally failing.

“C’mon,” Bucky says, getting an arm around Clint’s waist, and Clint doesn’t need any other encouragement.  He drops a few twenties on the bar and then loops his arm around Bucky’s shoulders, solid and grounding as they make their way out.

They separate as they push through the door.  The air outside is starting to cool, and it feels soothing on Bucky’s overheated skin.  Bucky can feel his pulse racing again, but this time with anticipation. They get a block away, Clint walking silently at Bucky’s side, before Bucky can’t stand it any longer.

There’s a shadowed alley between buildings and Bucky grabs Clint’s arm, pulling him in that direction.

“What’re you —” Clint starts, and then Bucky is pushing him up against the brick wall, interrupting whatever he was going to say with the press of his lips.  

At first he thinks he’s made a mistake — Clint just stands there, frozen.  Bucky is just starting to pull back when Clint makes a low noise and then he’s pulling Bucky in, lips pressed desperately against his, a firm hand grasping the nape of Bucky’s neck to hold him steady.

And fuck, but it’s better even than Bucky had imagined.  Clint kisses like he’s trying to learn Bucky from the inside out.  His mouth is soft and wet and warm, coaxing Bucky’s lips open gently, nipping and sucking until Bucky’s head spins.

The kiss deepens, turning desperate and filthy.  Bucky leans in, his thigh slotting between Clint’s legs, feeling Clint harden against the hollow of his hip, and Clint grunts into Bucky’s mouth.  His hands are warm at Bucky’s waist, rucking up his shirt to press against bare skin.

Clint tears his mouth away, nipping and biting down Bucky’s jaw.  Bucky tilts his head back to give him better access, pressing forward, urging Clint to ride his thigh.

“Yeah,” he breathes.  “Clint —”

Bucky realizes that Clint is saying something too, muttered words spoken into the damp skin of Bucky’s throat as he scrapes his teeth down the column of his neck.

“Wait,” Clint is saying.  “Wait —”

Bucky blinks, the words like a cold splash of water in his face.  He pulls back and Clint makes a noise of protest, fingers gripping tight at Bucky’s waist to hold him there.

“You said —” Bucky starts in confusion.

Clint raises his head at that, stunned blue eyes looking at Bucky before he pulls in a deep breath, loosening his grip on Bucky, leaning his head back against the brick wall with a sigh.

“Uh.  Yeah. I guess I was talkin’ to myself,” Clint says sheepishly. “I just…”  He pulls in another deep breath, letting it out slowly. Bucky can feel it, cool where his neck is still damp from Clint’s mouth.  

“You live with me,” Clint says.  “Hell, you work for me now. I don’t want you to feel like...like you owe me anythin’, just ‘cause you’ve figured out how I feel about you.”

Bucky frowns.  “What, like you’re worried I’m whorin’ myself out for rent?”

Clint flinches, tension showing in the muscles around his eyes, and starts to pull away.  And fuck, Bucky’s messed this up already. Bucky tightens the hand on his shoulder, keeping him close in near desperation.  He ducks his head, trying to look him in the eye, but Clint is avoiding meeting his gaze. “Clint? What’d I say?”

Clint pulls in a deep breath, but he forces his eyes up to meet Bucky’s.  “I was a carnie — a runaway, and a juvenile delinquent.” He rubs the back of his neck, his cheeks flushing pink.  “I’m not saying it happened a lot, but every once in awhile I pulled a trick that didn’t exactly involve a bow and arrow,” he says ruefully.  

He stops, as if gauging Bucky’s reaction.  “I just — I know what it’s like not to have choices, ‘cause I’ve been there.”  He searches Bucky’s face earnestly. “I wanna be sure you know that you always got a choice.”

“Hey.”  Bucky tugs him closer.  “I know that. And I’m sorry I joked about it.  But that’s not somethin’ you have to worry about.”  The idea was ludicrous. “Clint, you’re _good_.  That’s not what you’re like.  So don’t act like you’re takin’ advantage of me, or whatever you’re thinkin’.”

“I don’t know about that, Buck.”  Bucky’s hand is on Clint’s cheek now, and Clint leans into it, closing his eyes.  “Sometimes — sometimes I think that I would take you any way I could have you.”

“Well, you got me,” Bucky says.  “I’m right here, and you got me.”

Clint opens his eyes again.  He still looks stunned. “I couldn’t be so fuckin’ lucky,” he says.  His hand comes up, gentle fingers tracing Bucky’s hair back behind his ear.  “Bucky, you could do so much better’n me.”

“That’s bullshit.”  Bucky leans in again, and this time the kiss is soft, lingering and sweet.  He pulls away with a sigh, and it takes a moment for him to remember what they were talking about.  

“In there,” Bucky said.  “You had my six. I just —”  He shakes his head. He can’t find the words to make Clint understand.  "Clint, _you had my six.”_

And maybe that’s all he needs to say after all, because Clint looks like he gets it.  “Always, Buck,” he says, his blue eyes wide and sincere in the shadowy light. _“Always.”_

And that’s exactly it, isn’t it?  Clint has been there for Bucky, in every way possible, since before he even knew him.  Rock-solid and dependable, loyal to a fuckin’ fault. And he thought Bucky could do _better_ than him?  Impossible.

“C’mon,” Bucky says, his voice more of a growl than he means it to be.  He tugs Clint away from the wall. “I want —” He doesn’t really know what he wants, exactly.  “I wanna take you home.”

“Yeah.”  Clint sounds breathless but he follows easily enough.  

The hand Bucky had on Clint’s forearm to pull him away from the wall slides down, and simple as that they are walking with their hands clasped.  It feels new, almost dangerous somehow, just that little point of contact. He can’t remember if he’s ever done this with anyone before but he can see why people like it, that electric pulse of awareness that seems to pass from palm to palm, the assurance that Clint is within reach.

They get back to the building and Bucky curses the remaining hitch in his gait that doesn’t let him take the stairs two at a time, the way he wants to.  He’s already got his keys out by the time they hit the hall, and he would feel embarrassed if Clint didn’t look just as eager as he did.

He fumbles the key in the lock a little and feels Clint press closer, a long line of heat against his back.

“This okay?” Clint murmurs into Bucky’s ear.  Bucky manages a nod and then Clint’s lips are on the back of his neck, his arms wrapping tight around his waist.  Bucky pulls in a shuddering breath, leaning his forehead against the rough wood of the door for a moment.

“Here,” Clint says, and he can’t possibly see from where he’s biting and sucking at the crook of Bucky’s neck, and yet his fingers wrap around Bucky’s, sliding the key into the keyhole and turning the key smoothly without a pause.

“Fuckin’ show-off.”  Bucky smiles where Clint can’t see, and then they are pushing through the door.  Lucky scampers around them and Clint clicks his tongue and sends him to his bed.

They barely make it inside before Clint is shoving Bucky up against the wall, kicking the door shut behind him.  Then Clint’s mouth is back on his, kissing him deep and thorough. Clint’s hands are everywhere, desperate and grasping — sliding up under Bucky’s shirt to sweep up his back, tangling in his hair to position his head just how Clint wants him.  Bucky feels his whole body go loose and pliant under the onslaught.

“Bucky,” Clint is murmuring between kisses.  “Jesus...Buck…”

Clint pulls back with a gasp, like it hurts him to remove his mouth from Bucky’s skin.  Bucky can feel his fingers clenching restlessly against his waist.

“What do you want?” Clint murmurs.  His hips push into Bucky’s as if instinctively, unconsciously.  He inhales sharply as they rub together, both of them hard in their jeans.  “Anything, whatever you want.”

“I —”  Bucky wants everything, but in the back of his head he knows that what he wants and what he can actually handle might be different right now.  He’s already feeling just on the edge of overwhelmed, the press of Clint against his body too much and not enough at the same time.

“Just — just touch me,” he finally says.

Clint smiles, slow and easy.  “Can do,” he says.

Bucky feels himself sag back against the wall as Clint’s hands ease away from his head and his waist, sliding down to unbuckle his belt and then pop the button of his jeans.  Clint takes a moment to just rub him through the rough denim. The muffled pressure has Bucky greedily hitching his hips up into Clint’s hand, desperate for more.

“Okay,” Clint mutters, and Bucky doesn’t know if he’s talking to himself again or to Bucky.  “Okay.”

Bucky can only watch helplessly as those hands he’s dreamed about slowly drag down the zipper of his jeans, spreading his fly.  Clint doesn’t waste any more time, licking his palm and then delving one hand straight in the waist of Bucky’s boxer briefs. Bucky makes a choked noise, knocking his head back against the wall as Clint’s long fingers wrap around his cock, sure and firm, giving him a friendly squeeze.

“It’s okay.  I gotcha,” Clint murmurs.  His right hand comes up to tangle in Bucky’s hair, cushioning his head from the wall, while his left hand starts to stroke his cock, slow and steady.  

Something about the contrast — the tenderness of his care and the absolute _filthiness_ of the way he’s working Bucky’s cock — it’s driving Bucky _crazy_ , making him feel pulled taut in two different directions.  

“Clint,” he says, but he doesn’t even know what he’s asking for.

It doesn’t matter, Clint seems to know anyway.  “Yeah,” he says, his hand speeding up, thumb circling the head to spread slickness down the shaft.  “Just like that. C’mon, Bucky.”

Bucky can feel it building — gathering at the base of his spine and deep in his belly, the tension coiling hot and white.  His breath is panting now, his whole body flushed with heat, sweat prickling at his temples. He feels surrounded by Clint — the slick pressure of his hand, the warm rumble of his voice, the smell of his shampoo.  He’s gonna come, right here in the hallway, right into Clint’s fucking hand. Clint’s gonna _make_ him.

“I’m —” he starts, stupidly, nonsensically.  “Clint, I — _unh_ — I — ”

“Go on.”  Clint’s blue eyes are steady on Bucky’s face, as if he doesn’t want to miss a thing.  His voice is deeper than Bucky has ever heard it. _“Show me.”_

And Bucky _wants_ to, he wants to show Clint just how good he’s making him feel right now.  He leans back into the hand in his hair, bucking his hips up into Clint’s slick fist, and comes for him, shaking and gasping, eyes open so he can see Clint just as much as Clint is seeing him.

“Jesus, look at you,” Clint breathes.  “Fuckin’ _beautiful_.” It would sound like a line but Bucky can see the truth of it in Clint’s expression.  His eyes are dark, his mouth open, tongue skimming his lower lip as he gently works the last shudders out of Bucky until his knees go weak.

Clint has been careful not to crowd Bucky, but now he leans in, pressing his forehead to Bucky’s temple as he carefully pulls his hand out of his boxer briefs.

“Jesus, Bucky — can I?”  

Bucky doesn’t get what Clint is asking at first, and then he sees him make a movement toward the belt of his own jeans and then stop, apparently stymied by his sticky hand.

“Yeah, god.”  Bucky works Clint’s belt and pants open in record time.  Clint is so hard, cock curving up toward his belly, the head pushing free of the waistband of his purple boxers.  It’s making Bucky’s mouth water just to see him like that. “Didja want me to —”

“Just — just lemme stay here — ”  Clint’s open mouth is pressed against Bucky’s temple now, breath hot and damp against his skin.  He reaches into his boxers with the hand slick with Bucky’s come, his bicep flexing as he strips his cock frantically, ruthlessly.  “Not gonna take long —”

“Okay, yeah,” Bucky says.  He realizes he’s just standing up against the wall like a dope, and he wraps his metal arm around Clint’s waist and winds the fingers of the other hand in Clint’s short hair, careful not to dislodge his hearing aid.

“Buck —” Clint lifts his head, nuzzling closer, and Bucky meets him halfway, their tongues tangling.  Bucky sneaks his hand under Clint’s shirt, running his metal fingers up Clint’s spine before he can think better of it.  Clint makes a low, shocked noise, grunting into the kiss, and then he’s coming too, back arching and twisting as Bucky plunders his mouth.

They finally break apart, Clint sagging in Bucky’s arms.  He presses a kiss into Bucky’s collarbone, and then ruins the tender moment by giggle-snorting.

“What?” Bucky says, although he can’t really bring himself to care.  He’s still floating, loose and relaxed.

Clint straightens up.  “It’s just —” After a moment of consideration he wipes his hand on his shirt, and then pulls it off entirely, balling it up and wiping both of their bellies down with it.  “That’s the best I’ve ever had, and we didn’t even get our clothes off,” he finishes, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

And that sets Bucky to giggling too, half in amusement and half in relief.  He realizes that he mostly just stood there, so he’s glad that it was good for Clint.  

His phone buzzes in his back pocket, startling him away from his boneless sag against the wall.  He hitches his pants up the rest of the way, re-doing the fly and buckling his belt, and then checks the text.

“Steve is asking if it’s okay to come back,” he says.

Clint grins, wide and goofy.  “Better’n five minutes ago,” he says, and that starts them both giggling again.

Bucky gives Clint’s bare shoulder a shove.  “Go get cleaned up,” he says. “Don’t wanna offend Steve’s tender sensibilities.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, but he doesn’t move an inch.  He’s just staring at Bucky, blue eyes bright and happy.

“Hey,” Bucky says, because he can’t think of anything else to say.  It’s making him squirm a little, that look in Clint’s eyes, like Bucky is Christmas and his birthday all rolled up in one.

“Hey,” Clint says back.  He reaches up, the backs of his fingers brushing Bucky’s cheek, as if he just needs to have his hands on him.  “You still okay with this?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says immediately.  “You?”

“Never better.”  He leans in, kissing Bucky one more time.  

This one is different from any of the kisses they’ve shared so far.  It’s brief, and sweet. It feels like a promise.


	15. Aw, Romance, No

 

Steve opens the door the next morning to head out for his early run with Lucky, and then stops short.

Bucky and Clint wander over to see what’s up, and then all of them stand around looking.

The thing is huge, big enough that Bucky is gonna make Steve be the one to carry it inside.  It’s... _somewhat_ of a floral arrangement, with pretty red and yellow flowers scattered throughout, but the bulk of it is made up of art supplies.  Sprays of colored markers and pencils flank the sides, while the back is framed by a huge sketchpad. Tubes of acrylics, wired together to look something like snapdragons stand tall in the middle, with paintbrushes serving as the stems.

Lucky sniffs around the edges of the basket inquiringly.

“He must’ve had 'em open an art store in the middle of the night to get it here in time,” Clint observes, his voice still sleep-roughened.

Bucky casts a glance at Steve, still standing gobsmacked and pink-cheeked.  Steve has always been shy about his art. He and Stark must’ve gotten along pretty damn good last night for Stark to know enough to send something like this.

“There’s a card,” he prompts.  He’s not sure how to feel about this.  Steve sure deserves something good, but _Stark?_  The guy seemed like an obnoxious, impulsive man-child.  

Then again, when Steve doesn’t make a move, Bucky leans forward and plucks the card off of the holder for him, only realizing afterwards that he did it with the metal hand.  He hands the card to Steve, and then flexes his metal fingers consideringly.

He knows the basics that were big enough to make the news even on base.  Five years ago Tony Stark went to Afghanistan to oversee a weapons test, instead saw the damage weapons manufactured by his late father’s company were doing, and shortly afterwards used his controlling interest to force a complete change in corporate strategy.  

In the past five years Stark Industries had fully divested itself of its armaments business, and switched its formidable research and development resources toward clean energy, medical prosthetics, and a thousand other do-gooder projects.

Come to think of it, maybe he’s a good match for a sap like Steve after all.

Steve is still staring at the card, but at least he’s gotten as far as opening it up.  

He must feel Bucky’s eyes on him.  “He wants to go to dinner,” he says, his voice still sounding faint with shock.

The coffee maker finishes burbling and Clint makes a wordless sound of joy and nopes out of this conversation to go commune with his morning brew.

“You wanna go?” Bucky asks, trying to keep any judgment out of his voice.

“I dunno.”  Steve is shifting from foot to foot uncertainly, and for a moment Bucky sees the shadow of the skinny 12-year-old Stevie hiding within the bulky man in front of him.  “We — I liked talking to him last night, but I’m headed out to Lejeune tomorrow, and then who knows where after that. Where’s this gonna go?”

“Where do you _want_ it to go?”  Bucky leans against the doorway, watching Steve.  Lucky finally gives up on the run and patters back inside, his leash falling from Steve’s slack hand.  Steve just stares at the card, folding and then opening it again like the message inside is going to change.

“Listen.”  Bucky may have only gotten his shit together with Clint last night, but compared to Steve he’s practically a relationship expert.  “If you just wanna go out tonight and have fun, that’s fine. And if that’s all he wants too, then you’re on the same page. But if he wants more and you want more…”  

Bucky looks over Steve’s shoulder to where Clint’s leaning against the kitchen counter.  His head is tilted all the way back to capture the last dregs of his coffee, his throat working.  He’s got pillow-creases still on his cheek, a rip in the knee of his sweatpants, and his hair is sticking up in all directions.  

“Bein’ friends with someone before you jump into a relationship with them ain’t the worst way to go about it,” Bucky says, unable to keep the smile from his face.  “Maybe havin’ eight months to figure out if you wanna give it a go is a good thing.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, his voice sounding steadier now.  He folds up the card and slides it into the pocket of his sweatpants.  “Maybe so.”

* * *

Steve has only brought three shirts in the civvies he packed, but he’s still changed his shirt four times trying to decide and it’s more than an hour until Stark’s car is supposed to come pick him up.

“Why don’t you take him to _Luke’s_?” Clint finally suggests when Steve ducks into Bucky’s room to change yet again.  “Get his mind off it a little?”

Bucky wonders if Clint just wants Steve out of his hair — he’s even grating on Bucky’s nerves, and they’ve been friends for decades — but it’s not a bad idea nonetheless.  

 _Luke’s_ is almost deserted this early on a Saturday, and Luke himself seems to hold no hard feelings for the incident last night.

And Clint probably wasn’t wrong about the way deployment affects your tolerance, because Bucky and Steve only have a beer or two and yet Steve is halfway to his happy drunk by the time they walk back to Clint’s place and find Tony’s sleek black car parked in front.  

Bucky gets him started with a shove to his lower back but Steve manages the rest, clambering into the passenger seat.  Bucky watches the car zip away from the curb, hoping that whatever happens Steve at least doesn't get his heart broken.  The guy's a giant sap under all the muscle.

Bucky makes his way back upstairs.  Halfway up the last flight he hears Lucky barking.  He speeds up, and as he hits the hallway he catches the faint smell of smoke.  Bucky runs the last few steps, ignoring the ache in his injured thigh as he pushes through their door.  “Clint?”

“Goddammit,” Clint is cursing under his breath. He’s got a smoking pan in one hand and is waving a dishtowel over it.   “Aw fuck ow!” The pan he’s holding clatters onto the stovetop and he rushes to the sink, running cold water over his hand.

“Are you —”  Bucky stops short.  There’s some sort of fabric draped across the breakfast bar, with a jar in the middle.  And instead of his usual sweatpants and hoodie, Clint is wearing a button-down and actual _pants_.  “What’s going on?”

Clint scowls down into the sink.  “Nothin’.  Just me being a disaster as usual.”

And... _oh._

Bucky soothes Lucky with a few pats and then comes up behind Clint, wrapping one arm around his waist while he grasps Clint’s wrist in the other, turning his hand so he can see the burn.  There’s a red mark over the heel of his palm, but it’s not too bad. Shouldn’t even blister.

“You cooked?”  Bucky has to pull down the collar of Clint’s shirt to place a kiss on the side of his neck.  

Clint pulls in a shuddering breath and relaxes a little, letting his spine melt into the curve of Bucky’s body.

“Tried to.”  His voice still sounds dejected.  “Went to Simone’s to borrow the candle, and the chicken started to burn, and then I guess the potholder was wet, and —”  He gestures to his burned hand.

Bucky turns the faucet off and tugs at one of Clint’s belt loops, urging him to turn around.  Clint easily follows the motion with his body, but still won’t meet Bucky’s eyes.

“Hey,” Bucky says.  He places his right hand on Clint’s jaw, brushing his thumb across the baby-smooth skin.  Clint even shaved for this, and his haystack hair is tamed into some sort of style that Bucky urgently wants to mess up again.

Clint finally looks up, and Bucky leans in, pressing a soft kiss against his downturned mouth.  And then another to each corner, until Clint reluctantly smiles.

“You hate cooking,” Bucky says.  “And you hate dressin’ up. What’s this all about?”

Clint’s eyes flutter closed, and he sighs.  “I just —” He shrugs. “Seein’ Steve and Tony, I realized I never really did any of that stuff for you.  You know. Presents, or dates. Romantic shit.” His eyes finally open, so blue and sincere that it makes something ache deep in Bucky’s chest.  “You deserve all that too, and I didn’t do any of it, and then I tried an’ I’m just as shit at it as I’ll probably be at this relationship, an’ —”

Bucky has to stop Clint’s words with another kiss.  This one starts out slow but gets deeper, needier. And if this is one way that Bucky can reassure Clint, then it works for him.  But Clint deserves more too. Bucky is shit at talking about feelings, but looking at the effort Clint is putting into this, he’s gonna try.

Bucky pulls back from the kiss reluctantly.  Clint’s lips are soft and pink, and he’d like to stay lost in them for the rest of the evening, but there’s stuff he’s gotta say first.  

“You know what’s romantic?” Bucky says.  “You slamming Stark onto that bar for touchin' me without permission.  You sharin’ Lucky with me — hell, you sharin' this whole building and all the people you care about with me.  You givin’ me headphones and sittin’ snuggled up with me until the fireworks ended. All the million things you’ve done since the day you punched me in the jaw.”

Clint’s pouting a little now.  “That’s not — I wasn’t even _tryin’_ then.”

“I know, sweetheart.  That’s what makes you so amazing.”

Color rushes into Clint’s cheeks, and Bucky doesn’t know if it’s the endearment or the compliment or both, but he loves to see it.  

“I didn’t think you’d be happy out at a restaurant,” Clint says in a rush.  “But I thought if I did this, it would be like dinner an' then...Steve said you like dancing.  So I was gonna play music, and —”

And that deserves another kiss, this one a hard press of Bucky’s mouth that turns slick and deep.  Clint mades a needy little sound and Bucky finds that his fingers are already working the buttons of that goddamn button-down.  He spreads his fingers under the fabric. Clint is wearing one of his t-shirts underneath, and Bucky pulls the button-down all the way off, casting it aside.

“I would love to dance with you, sweetheart,” he says when he finally pulls away, both of them short of breath.  “And we’re both gonna have to put some work into this, but that doesn’t mean bein’ someone else. If you don’t like to cook and dress up, then you don’t gotta cook and dress up.  Just —” Clint is smiling now, soft and happy, and if Bucky could make him look like that all the time he’d be the happiest sonuvabitch on earth. “Keep bein’ you.”

Bucky knows that it’s not that easy, that Clint is going to take more convincing, but they’ve got time.  

“Now get outta my kitchen,” he says, making sure all the affection he’s feeling shows in his voice.  “I’m gonna make us somethin’ to eat real quick, and then you can show me these dance moves of yours.”


	16. Aw, Insecurity, No

In the end Clint’s chicken is only burnt on the edges.  Bucky cuts the rest up for a stir fry, and even allows Clint back into the kitchen to chop up some vegetables, because as much as the man can’t cook, his knife skills are sexy as hell.  

In fact watching Clint chop carrots at the speed of light, flipping the knife every so often just to be a showy asshole, hits Bucky’s competence kink so hard that he has to pull Clint in for a kiss, and then a few more, and they almost burn dinner _again_ before pulling themselves apart.

Bucky transfers the meal onto plates, arousal and anticipation thrumming through him, and he can tell from the heated glances Clint is sending him that he feels the same.

They sit down at the breakfast bar decorated with a tablecloth Clint dug up from god knows where, and Clint lights the candle he borrowed from Simone and stuck into an old jelly jar, and it’s nice.  It’s still _them_ , the conversation as comfortable as ever, but it’s a little special too.

* * *

After dinner they take Lucky for a walk.  The baking heat of summer is starting to cool in the evenings, the whole city tipping into fall after dusk.  

The Mister Softee truck is parked outside the playground, and they stand in line, Lucky becoming an instant celebrity with the kids.  He flops down on his belly as they all gather around and pet him, their parents looking on indulgently.

Clint crouches down in the middle of them, showing them how to pet gently, patiently redirecting the littlest one who is tugging on Lucky’s ears.  Bucky sees Clint checking in on him every once in awhile, making sure he’s okay in the press of people.

Even a few months ago he would have probably taken it the wrong way.  Therapy has really helped him sort out the difference between people caring about him and people doubting his ability to cope.  Even though they’ve told him he doesn’t need to, he’s still done a lot of apologizing to Becca and Sam and even his ma as he’s figured it out, remembering how angry he would get early on when they were just trying to help.

They get to the front of the line and each get cones, along with a kid’s cone for Lucky that he crunches up in five seconds flat.  Without needing to talk about it they both head towards the park where they met, wandering slowly as they lick their cones. Bucky doesn’t realize how quiet he’s been, thinking about the changes in himself over the past few months since he’s meant Clint, until Clint gently bumps his shoulder.

“You okay?”

Bucky blinks, pulling himself out of his thoughts.  “Yeah, sorry. Just...thinking.”

Clint’s brow is still a little furrowed.  Bucky tangles his hand with the hand holding Lucky’s leash.  They’re by a bench, so he tugs gently and they sit. Clint loops Lucky’s leash around the arm of the bench, waiting patiently while Bucky tries to formulate his thoughts.

“It’s just — sometimes I get caught up in the ways I still need to get better, and — I forget how much progress I’ve made,” Bucky finally gets out.  “When I first got hurt, those first few months — I never thought I’d be able to do the things I’m doin’ now. Just — bein’ happy. Not thinkin’ about my arm every second, or feelin’ like my life was over before it really started.”  

He looks around the park for a minute, taking in the beauty of it — the dappled light through the trees and the warm breeze, the sound of kids playing in the distance.  The world is a beautiful place, and there was a long dark time when Bucky had forgotten that. “You were a big part of that, but — I did that too. I worked hard to get better and I guess I’m just kinda...proud all of a sudden.”    

Clint’s worried expression has slowly been clearing as Bucky speaks, and now he’s smiling, warm and soft.  Feeling wells up in Bucky, so sharp and overwhelming that it sticks in his throat. He has to look away for a minute, focusing on his ice cream cone to get himself under control a little.  He finishes the last of it, wiping his sticky fingers on his jeans, before he can bring himself to look at Clint again.

Clint waits until he’s looking and then leans in slowly.  He tastes of mint chocolate chip, his kiss cold and warm at the same time.  He kisses Bucky deep and soft, his fingers delved into Bucky’s hair, cradling the back of his scalp.  When they finally separate both of them are smiling.

“What was that for?” Bucky asks, even though he kinda knows.  

“I’m proud of you too,” Clint says, and the words probably shouldn’t make Bucky feel as happy as they do.  He doesn’t need Clint’s approval, but he basks in it all the same. “And,” Clint continues, “I’m kinda relieved.  I wondered if maybe you were having second thoughts.”

That catches Bucky by surprise.  “About us?”

Clint shrugs and now he’s the one avoiding eye contact, feeding the last of his dripping cone to Lucky, letting the dog lick his fingers.

Bucky forgets sometimes, how insecure Clint can be.  “Hey,” he says, pulling Clint’s eyes back to his. “I’m sure of us.”

“Yeah.  I’m sorry.”  Clint’s mouth twists.  “I am too, I don’t want you to think I’m not.”  He pulls Bucky’s hand into his lap, absentmindedly playing with his fingers.  “I guess I’ve just learned that good things don’t last.” He swallows, focusing too intently on where his fingers are tracing the lines of Bucky’s palm now.  “And this is the best thing I’ve ever had,” he finishes quietly.

And, yeah.  Bucky knows what he means.  If he lets himself think about it he’s kinda scared shitless too.  But he’s not gonna let it stop him, and he’s not gonna let Clint’s doubts and insecurities mess this up either.  He scoots in close to Clint, resting his head against his shoulder. This isn’t something he can fix with a few words, but he can show Clint that he’s got nothing to worry about — today and every day after this one.

Clint seems to understand, too.  He rests his cheek against Bucky’s temple, his body slowly relaxing.  One arm settles around Bucky’s shoulders, pulling him close. The other hand keeps playing with Bucky’s fingers, as if just reveling in the ability to touch.

It’s quiet and calm, and Bucky feels like he could happily stay here forever.  But he’s not sure when Steve might come home, and they had plans before Bucky’s weird contemplative mood got in the way.

He finally pushes to his feet, using their linked hands to pull Clint up with him.  

“C’mon.  Someone promised me dancin’.”

* * *

Clint didn’t have time to pull together a playlist earlier, so he sorts through a frankly embarrassing amount of Britney Spears on his phone to pick out a few slower tunes.  Come to think of it, he’s not even sure what Steve meant when he said Bucky likes dancing.

He pictures Bucky in a club, head thrown back as he grinds to the music, and his mouth goes a little dry.

“What —”  He clears his throat, trying again.  “What kind of dancin’ do you like to do, anyway?”

“I like it all,” Bucky says easily.  “Ma used to teach at Arthur Murray, and she’d drag us kids with her pretty often.  Made us demonstrate, sometimes. Ballroom, swing, whatever.” He frowns down at his left leg a little.  “Might be better to start slow, though. Haven’t tried since I got hurt.”

“Oh.”  And Clint shoulda thought of that too.  Bucky’s limp has gotten a lot better as he’s gained strength back, but it still shows up when he’s tired, and he still has to take his time on the stairs.  “You okay tryin’ this? We could —”

Bucky grabs Clint’s hand, tugging him into a spin.  Clint goes easily, ending up in the crook of Bucky’s left arm, laughing as Bucky dips him dangerously low.

“Okay, you made your point.”  Clint is a little dizzy as Bucky sweeps him back upright, the strength in his metal arm astounding.  

Bucky grins.  “Put some music on.  I wanna dance with my guy.”

Jesus, Clint likes the sound of that — of Bucky calling Clint _his_.  He plugs the phone into the small speaker, and starts the playlist.

 _“At last...my love has come along...my lonely days are over...and life is like a song...”_ Etta James croons as Clint pulls Bucky close.

They just sway for a moment, getting used to each other.  Bucky’s obviously not used to dancing with someone taller than he is, and they’re both accustomed to leading.  It only takes a few minutes to adjust, though, and once it clicks it’s just as easy, just as comfortable, as anything else between them.

They get a little fancier, adding turns and dips, as much as they can manage in the limited space behind the couch.  Bucky twirls Clint until they’re both laughing, breathless, and then Clint pulls him in close, just holding him tight.

Bucky buries his face in the crook of Clint’s neck, humming along with the music, sending little buzzing tickles down Clint’s spine.  

 _“Makes no difference...where I go...or what I do...you know I’ll always be...loving you…”_ Elvis is singing now.

The little hums against Clint’s neck are turning into barely-there kisses, the hand Bucky has on Clint’s back sliding down to slip in under the hem of his t-shirt, fingernails dragging bluntly up Clint’s spine.

“Hey,” Clint says, and his voice comes out a lot rougher than he means it too.  “We — we should probably talk. About what you like.”

“Mmmmm…” Bucky says, the kisses on Clint’s throat growing wetter.  “I like _you_ ,” he murmurs against Clint’s skin.

Clint stifles a groan.  Without him realizing it his hands have moved down to Bucky’s ass, pulling him close.  He can feel the blood leaving his brain, and tries to force himself to concentrate even as Bucky makes a pleased little sound, grinding up against his thigh.

“I mean — you know what I mean,” Clint tries again.  Bucky looks up at that, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion.  “What you like _in bed_ ,” Clint clarifies.

“Oh.”  And now the pink in Bucky’s cheeks isn’t all from dancing.  “I mean, I —” He stops, frowns to himself, and then starts again.  “You know I haven’t really, uh, tried anythin’ since —” he gestures to his left arm.  “So I’m not a hundred percent sure how that’s gonna, y’know, be.”

He pauses, taking another breath.  “And for the rest of it, I mean — I’ve fooled around with guys — like, y’know, blow jobs and stuff, but I’ve —” his voice gets a little hoarse, and he stops, clearing his throat.  “I’ve only ever fucked girls,” he ends in a rush as if getting the words out quicker will make them easier to say.

Clint gives him a kiss to reward him for getting it out, and then pulls him back into the dance while he thinks it over.  “Is that somethin’ you wanna try someday?” he ends up on.

“What, fucking?”  Bucky stops swaying, surprise clear in his voice.  “I mean, I kinda just figured it was part of it. When I decided to do this.”

Clint hums.  There was a time when he felt the same, which is why he’s more glad than ever that they’re talking instead of jumping straight into bed like he desperately wants to.  

“It doesn’t have to be, if you don’t like it, and some people don’t.  You can only top, or we don’t hafta fuck at all if you don’t wanna. I like blow jobs too, and hand jobs, and just rubbing up against you.  We can try whatever you wanna try, an’ if there’s anythin’ you don’t like that’s fine with me.”

Bucky’s confusion is evident, and pretty damn endearing.  He’s swaying absent-mindedly with Clint again, but it’s clear he’s thinking it over.  “Is this — do people usually have a conversation like this? Because I gotta be honest, normally I just buy someone a drink and take ‘em home.”

“I’ve done that too,” Clint admits.  “But I’m in this for more than one night, and I never want you to do anythin’ you don’t wanna do, just ‘cause you think it’s expected.”  Nat being ace is not his story to tell, but he’s sure learned a lot from her.

“How about you?” Bucky says, surprising Clint a little.  “Do you like — uh —?”

“Gettin’ fucked?” Clint supplies, taking pity on him.  “It feels good, but I really gotta trust someone for that, so I haven’t done it that much.”  It’s clear in his head, but he decides to be specific just in case Bucky has any doubts. ”I’d trust you,” he adds.

“Me?  I wouldn’t know what I was doin’.”

“That part doesn’t matter.”  Clint spins Bucky while he thinks on it, trying to put it into words.  “It’s about opening yourself up to someone, an’ trusting ‘em to take care of you.”

“Oh.”  

They’re both quiet for a little while, listening to Jane Monheit singing about the detour ahead.  

“What would you pick?” Bucky finally asks.  “For tonight, I mean.”

Clint pulls in a deep breath and when he lets it out it’s shakier than he would have thought.  He wants everything with Bucky, all at once.

“I want you in my bed,” he finally manages.  Even the thought of it is almost more than he can handle.  “I wanna get you naked. Make you come again, I don’t really care how.  I like suckin’ dick, so we could do that. I just want —” When he pulls back Bucky’s pupils are blown wide, his tongue coming out to lick at his bottom lip.  “Jesus, Buck, I just wanna _know_ you.  Know if you’re noisy or quiet, know what makes you feel good, know how every part of you tastes —”  

Bucky stops the babble of words with his mouth, a hard press of his lips as he herds Clint, walking him backwards toward his room.  They push through the door still kissing. Bucky kicks the door shut as he pulls Clint’s shirt over his head.

Clint feels the edge of the bed against his shins and finally breaks out of the kiss.  He strips down to his boxers, backing onto the bed.

Bucky hesitates for just a moment, and then strips his shirt off too.  Clint has felt the joint between metal and flesh under his hands, but he’s never seen it fully — the way the metal plates edge right up to the scarred skin.  It’s not just his arm, either — Clint hadn’t realized it before, but Bucky has scars and burns down his whole left side.

He feels Bucky’s eyes on him, taking in his reaction as he undoes his own belt and zipper.  He has nothing to worry about. The metal arm is so much a part of Bucky that Clint can’t even imagine him without it, and scars don’t mean a thing to Clint except making him feel lucky as hell that Bucky survived it all to be here with him.

Bucky seems to realize it.  He smiles, pushing free of his jeans, and knee-walks onto the bed until he’s straddling Clint’s thighs.

He plants his metal hand beside Clint’s head and leans down.  “Hey,” he says.

Clint knows he’s smiling like an idiot, but he can’t help himself.  Bucky’s hair is just long enough to fall around his face, his storm-grey eyes bright.  His lips are pink and a little puffy from all the kissing they’ve been doing. The man has a mouth made for sin.

Clint thinks about having those lips wrapped around his cock sometime, and even the thought of it has him pressing up with a growl, his cock fattening up in his boxers as he pulls Bucky down against him.  They just grind together for a long minute until Clint remembers that he had an agenda.

He rolls them over, pulling back to press kisses down Bucky’s jaw, hands brushing down his sides, smooth skin under Clint’s left palm and rougher under his right.  He can feel Bucky’s hands exploring his own scars, both the metal and flesh fingers dragging over Clint’s shoulders and down his back, and then back up again as Clint kisses his way down Bucky’s chest.

He detours to Bucky’s nipples, spending more time there when he realizes just how sensitive they are.  By the time he’s done they’re pink and pouty and Bucky is making soft little noises every time Clint sucks, grinding his cock against any part of Clint he can reach.  Christ, but Clint could probably make him come just from this someday. He puts it on the list of things he wants to try.

He moves on almost reluctantly, sliding further down the bed.  There’s extensive scarring on Bucky’s left thigh, and a square patch of pink on the right where they probably took skin for grafting, and Clint kisses them both.  Then he focuses in on where Bucky’s cock is pressed up against the front of his boxer-briefs.

There’s a wet patch on the fabric and carefully, delicately, Clint closes his mouth around it, wetting the fabric with his tongue before sucking.  Bucky’s legs twitch and his hands come down to tangle in the sheets. Clint can feel the tension in the muscles of Bucky’s thighs as Bucky tries not to thrust up, and he runs his palms up and down the skin soothingly as he mouths Bucky through the wet cotton, teasing them both.

“Fuck,” Bucky breathes.  “Clint —”

Clint relents, lifting the waistband over Bucky’s cock and dragging his boxers down and off all the way.  And, damn but Bucky has a nice cock — pink and cut and curved just a little. His mouth is watering to just taste, but he forces himself to lean up, reaching into his bedside drawer to grab a condom.

“I shoulda done this before —” he mutters as he rips open the packet and then smooths it down Bucky’s shaft.  

Bucky nods frantically.  “We’ll get tested,” he says.  “Clint, you gotta — just —”

Clint sucks him down in one go, making Bucky grunt out a low, shocked noise.  And, yeah, Clint learned to suppress his gag reflex swallowing swords. Some of his circus skills have more practical applications than others.

He swallows around the head a few times, letting Bucky feel his throat work, before coming back up for air.  

“Fuckin’ _hell,”_ Bucky breathes, and he sounds just about wrecked already.

Clint gives them both a little bit of a breather, mouthing down Bucky’s shaft, sucking gently on his balls, enjoying the delicious little sounds Bucky makes.  He breathes in the warm, musky scent of his clean skin, mouthing back up the shaft of his cock before flicking his tongue against the head.

He experiments a little — grazing with his teeth, lapping with his tongue, seeing what actions make Bucky squirm and which ones draw the bitten-off little noises from his throat.

He’s grinding his own hard cock against the bed but his own arousal is distant, unimportant.  He’s immersed in Bucky right now — the taste of his clean skin, the tang of his sweat. The way he looks — his head thrown back, his chest littered with the marks of Clint’s mouth.  Bucky’s eyelashes flutter, and then his lids lift just enough to show a flash of his silver eyes, watching Clint watch him.

A flush is spreading slowly down Bucky’s chest, his hips starting to jerk involuntarily against Clint’s grasp.  Clint pulls off, feeling Bucky’s thighs tighten around his shoulders as if trying to pull him back in.

“You wanna come, baby?” Clint asks, half teasing and half asking for real.  He could draw this out all night if that’s what Bucky wanted. He pumps Bucky’s spit-slick cock with his hand a few times, waiting for his answer.

“Yeah.   _Fuck_ , yes.” Bucky says, his eyelids starting to flutter again, and that’s all Clint needs to hear.  He ducks down again, sucking greedily this time. He knows he’s making eager little noises too, loving the way Bucky feels in his mouth, the way his strong legs squeeze tight around Clint likes he wants to keep him forever.

Bucky is close now, breathing in short, sharp pants, his hips trying to hitch up where Clint’s palms are pinning them to the bed  

“Fuck,” he’s panting.  “Fuck, fuck, _Clint_ —”  

Clint reaches up, thumbing at Bucky’s nipple as he swallows him down to the root, and that’s all it takes.  Bucky’s back arches, his breath coming out in a stuttering groan as his cock jumps and twitches in Clint’s mouth.  

Clint works him through it, gentling him through the aftershocks.  He finally pulls off altogether, sucking in open-mouth gusts against Bucky’s hip.  The room is quiet except for the rasp of their breathing.

Clint feels Bucky’s fingers in his hair, just clumsily petting.  He turns his head, placing a wet kiss on Bucky’s hip as he eases the condom off, tying it and throwing it without looking at the trash can, knowing he’ll hit his target.

“C’mon up here,” Bucky slurs, the hand in Clint’s hair tugging gently now.  

Clint goes where he’s guided, coming up to hover over Bucky, letting Bucky pull him down and kiss the taste of latex from his mouth.

Then Bucky pushes Clint back a little.  He tugs Clint’s hand up in between them, Bucky’s pink tongue coming out to lick it, lingering on the webbing between his fingers, sucking each digit into his hot mouth until Clint is practically whimpering.  

Then Bucky licks his own palm and together they wrap around Clint’s cock.  Bucky lets Clint show him just how he likes it — how fast and how hard. Then he improvises, his thumb coming up to circle the wet tip, the metal fingers of his other hand scraping down Clint’s back, tracing the cleft of his ass until one finger rests just against his hole.

“You like that, sweetheart?” Bucky rasps, voice like rough velvet against Clint’s ear.  Clint can only nod frantically, rutting into Bucky’s hand, whining high when one metal finger taps right _there_ , the implication plain, both a promise and a threat.  And Clint _wants_ it, wants to have every part of Bucky inside of him.

He can hear himself making desperate, broken noises now, his face pressed tight into Bucky’s neck.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Bucky says, his voice so low and rough it sends another jolt straight to Clint’s cock.  “I’ve got you.” He swipes his thumb one more time, squeezing just right, and with a jolt Clint feels everything tighten and then release, his orgasm thrumming through him like a slow, gut-deep unraveling.  

Bucky is still stroking him, milking every shuddering pulse as Clint spills over Bucky’s hand and belly.  

“Buck,” Clint is muttering senselessly, as he breathes hot and wet against Bucky’s neck.   _“Buck.”_

“Yeah,” Bucky says, his metal hand now tracing through Clint’s hair.  “Yeah. I got you, Clint.”

And he _does_ , holding Clint tight while Clint snuffles into his throat, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes with how much he’s feeling right now.

Clint pulls in a shaky breath, realizing he’s probably crushing Bucky under his boneless weight.  With the last of his strength he rolls them, flopping on his back, Bucky held tight against his chest.

Bucky looks up at Clint, smiling soft and languorous, and he’s so goddamn beautiful that Clint feels like his heart is gonna burst right out of his chest.  

In a minute, Clint will force himself to his feet.  He’ll get Bucky a glass of water, and a warm washcloth to clean them both off.  

For now, though, all he can do is stare, light-headed and dazed, and wonder how he got so lucky.  He wraps his arms tighter around Bucky, squeezing him close, and lets himself believe that this is something he can keep.


	17. Aw, Flashback, No

It’s past three in the morning when Bucky’s phone hums on the side table.  It’s a text from Steve asking to be buzzed in, and Bucky enters the code on his phone that unlocks the front door.  

He presses a quick kiss of apology to Clint’s temple and then gingerly extracts himself from where Clint has flopped half on top of him, pinning Bucky in place under his sprawling limbs.  Clint snuffles in disgruntlement and then snags Bucky’s pillow, hugging it to his chest instead and immediately falling back asleep.

Bucky digs around on the floor, finding a shirt that is most likely his and sweatpants that are almost certainly Clint’s, before making it to the door in time to let Steve in.

“Sorry to wake you —” Steve starts as he comes inside, before he stops in place, his eyes narrowing on Bucky’s neck.  “Or did I?” He smiles that shit-eating grin of his. “Good night, huh?”

Bucky resists the urge to self-consciously tug the t-shirt’s collar up higher to hide the marks Clint left on him.  “Yeah, yeah, you’re one to talk,” he grumbles, heading to the kitchen for a glass of water. “Your shirt’s inside out.”  

It takes Steve a good few moments.  “No it’s not!” he finally says indignantly.

“Made ‘ya look, though.”  Bucky leans back against the kitchen counter, favoring Steve with a shit-eating grin of his own before gulping the water.

“Punk,” Steve grumbles, but he can’t hide his answering smile.  He settles himself at the breakfast bar, and when Bucky refills his water glass he fills another for Steve, passing it across the counter.

“So I guess you got along, then?” Bucky says, even though the answer is written plain across Steve’s face.  The man never could keep a secret to save his life.

Sure enough, Steve’s smile turns dopier.  “Yeah. He’s...he’s pretty amazing. Smartest man I ever met, but he also wants to _do_ things with his smarts, y’know?  He’s just —” Steve’s expression grows serious, as if Bucky is going to need convincing.  “He pretends like he doesn’t care about anything, but that’s about as far from the truth as it gets.  He’s — he’s a good man.”

And, sure, Tony didn’t make the best first impression, but Bucky trusts Steve.  Not to mention the evidence of his own functioning left arm, metal or not.

“I’d like to meet him again next time,” Bucky says.  “Never really did get to say thanks for this.” He holds up his left hand, flexing the fingers, and Steve’s eyes shine with happiness.

“Yeah.  That — that would be good.”

They drink their water in silence for awhile.  It feels quiet and companionable. Steve’s time here is coming to an end, and Bucky can’t believe that he almost didn’t want him to visit.

“My flight’s at 9,” Steve says as if reading Bucky’s mind.  “I should probably get outta here by 6 at the latest.”

“Yeah.”  Bucky chews his lip.  “Wanna stay up the rest of the night and watch Twilight Zone like we usedta?”

Steve smiles, big and wide, and Bucky puts the coffee on.

* * *

Bucky leaves a post-it on the coffee pot and a plate of pancakes warming in the oven for Clint when he wakes up, and takes the subway and then the bus to LaGuardia with Steve.  Steve keeps protesting that he doesn’t need to come along, but public transportation is pretty empty this early on a Sunday morning and Bucky doesn’t want to say goodbye to Steve before he has to.

It was different before, when they were both in the service.  Afterwards, when Bucky was injured, he was too mired in his own misery to realize that Steve was still out there — still in danger.  Now the worry settles in his stomach, a dull ache that he knows won’t fully go away until Steve is back.

Bucky stands still and lets Steve hug him for as long as he needs to — which is a damn long time — in front of the security checkpoint.  In the end, though, Bucky is the one who has trouble letting go.

“You stay safe,” he can’t stop himself from saying, even though he knows it’s beyond both of their control.  “You only got eight months left and I’m gonna get that apartment ready for ya.” The basket of art supplies is already there, sitting in the middle of the floor in an empty apartment.  “I don’t wanna get a phone call.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, wiping his sleeve across his eyes.  “I got that call,” he says softly, as if he can’t help himself, and the words hit like a punch to the gut for Bucky.

He can’t help it — he has to pull Steve in for another hug.  He’s been a selfish fucking bastard — so focused on his own recovery that he never really stopped to think about what it must have been like for Steve.  Bucky has his sisters and his ma, but Steve doesn’t have anyone else. Hell, the only reason Steve got leave to visit Bucky in Landstuhl when he was injured was because Bucky was listed as Steve’s next of kin in all the paperwork.

“I’ve been an asshole,” Bucky mutters, self-hatred welling up in his chest and clogging his throat.

“Hey.”  Steve drops his duffel bag and holds onto both of Bucky’s shoulders.  “No,” he says firmly. He pushes Bucky back far enough that he can meet his eyes.  “You’ve been depressed.” It’s the first time either of them have said it out loud, and Bucky flinches.  

“It’s killed me to be out there while you’ve been suffering here,” Steve says.  “But you know what? You did the hard work, and the therapy, and you’re gettin’ yourself out of it.  You got a good thing goin’ now. And I’m fuckin’ _proud_ of you, Buck.”

They’re both crying now, and Bucky guesses that people are probably looking, but he can’t bring himself to care.  Letting Steve go back on deployment while he stays safe at home suddenly seems like the hardest thing he’s ever had to do.

In the end it’s Steve who bites the bullet, clapping Bucky on the back one more time and then slinging his duffel back over his shoulder.  “I’ll Skype you when I get to Lejeune,” he promises.

He firms his jaw and squares his shoulders and makes his way into the security line, unembarrassed that his cheeks are wet with tears.

Bucky does his best to follow his example, making his way out of the airport without looking back.  The bus and subway are more crowded this time of day, more claustrophobic without Steve’s bulk between Bucky and the rest of the world.  Bucky suddenly wishes that he had woken Clint up to come with them. He absolutely would have, Bucky knows that with utter certainty, and he feels like an idiot now for not suggesting it.

By the time he gets home he feels like a raw nerve, jittery from sleeplessness and coffee and the press of people on the subway, his head throbbing and his throat scratchy from all the emotion he’s been swallowing.

Even though it’s creeping up on noon, he’s hoping that Clint is still in bed, sleep-warm and lax, so Bucky can crawl back in next to him and just make the world go away for a little while.  When he gets home, though, the apartment is empty — the plate the pancakes were on in the sink, Lucky’s leash gone from the hook.

The apartment suddenly seems unbearably empty and quiet despite the never-ending street noises from outside.  Bucky turns the television on. Some mindless talk show is playing, and he doesn’t bother to change the channel.  He pulls the ragged purple afghan off the back of the couch. It smells like Clint and Lucky. Bucky wraps himself up in it and stares numbly at the t.v., letting the bone-deep exhaustion swallow him up, waiting for them to come home.

* * *

Clint comes back from his walk with Lucky feeling on top of the world.  It’s a beautiful day out — clear and bright, cool enough in the mornings now that summer is edging into fall to make the morning walk a lot more comfortable than it has been.  He took Lucky to the park for an extra-long time to work off the ice cream they all had the night before, and they met at least three other dogs that Lucky got to sniff and Clint got to pet.

He was a little disappointed not to wake up with Bucky beside him, but he knew Steve was leaving this morning, and the plate of warm pancakes was a pretty good consolation prize.  Still, he takes the steps two at a time, Lucky bouncing along eagerly beside him, hoping that Bucky is home when he gets there.

And Bucky _is_ home, but Clint stops Lucky with a sharp tug on his leash, giving him the signal to stay quiet as he softly eases the door shut behind them.  

Bucky is fast asleep on the couch, wrapped up in that hideous purple afghan that Nat gave Clint as a joke but Clint loves unabashedly.  Clint moves closer, taking in the darkness of Bucky’s eyelashes against his pale cheeks, the softness of his parted lips. Bucky has the blanket wrapped burrito-tight around his shoulders, and it pulls the neckline of his t-shirt down far enough that Clint can see a few pink marks on his skin where Clint got carried away last night.

He should feel guilty but instead it just fills him with quiet satisfaction, this physical evidence of what they mean to each other.  Clint has a bruise on his own hip, a place where Bucky accidentally squeezed too tight with his metal fingers, and he presses his thumb against it almost unconsciously, the tender ache of it making his cock twitch.

Bucky needs his rest, though, and so Clint lets himself just look.  Lucky sniffs gently at Bucky’s legs and then silently jumps up on the couch, settling down on Bucky’s shins with a sigh of satisfaction, and the sight of them snuggled up together makes Clint’s heart feel like it grows three sizes.

Eventually Clint forces himself to stop staring like a creeper, although he may just snap a picture or two before he tears himself away.  He goes to the kitchen and starts making sandwiches for when Bucky wakes up.

There’s some Sunday-afternoon action movie playing on the television — all car chases and exploding buildings — and he half-listens as he stacks turkey and cheese and lettuce and tomato so high that he has to squash the bread down to keep it all together.  Mostly he thinks about everything he and Bucky did last night, and everything he wants to do with Bucky now that they have the whole day ahead of them with no Steve in the house.

Clint has never been great with layers of sound, and so it takes him a bit — too long — to realize that Lucky is whining.  He turns the corner of the breakfast bar, wondering absently what’s up but mostly caught up in pleasant thoughts of what exactly Bucky is willing to do with those metal fingers of his, and then his heart seems to freeze in his chest.

Bucky is obviously awake — he’s sitting mostly upright, his eyes open, but something is very wrong.  

Before Clint even processes it fully he’s crashing to his knees on the floor in front of the couch, coffee table shoved aside.

Bucky’s face is pale and clammy.  His mouth is moving, but he’s not saying anything that Clint can hear.  Worst of all are his eyes — they are wide and terrified, his gaze darting around but seeming to see nothing.

“Bucky?” Clint says, his voice coming out hoarse with fear.  “Bucky, can you hear me?”

Bucky doesn’t acknowledge him in any way, doesn’t even seem to hear his voice.  Clint’s hands are hovering over Bucky but he’s not sure if touching him would make it worse.  Shit, he’s such an idiot — he should have read up on this or something, or asked Bucky what to do.  He’s seen Bucky have bad days, but he’s never seen _this_ before, whatever it is.

“Bucky — you’re here, baby.  You’re safe. You’re in our apartment, in Bed Stuy.  It’s just me and Lucky. It’s — fuck — what day is it?  It’s August, 2019. You’re home, Bucky. You’re safe.”

It doesn’t seem to be helping at all.  Shit, there must be something else Clint can do.

He thinks about calling someone.  Becca is probably in surgery, and Clint doesn’t have her number anyway.  He doesn’t see Bucky’s phone — it’s probably in his back pocket, underneath him somewhere.

Suddenly Clint remembers; Sam had asked for his phone on the day Bucky moved in, typing in his number and telling Clint to call if they needed anything.  His hands are so clumsy, fingers numb with fear, that he scrolls right past it in his short list of contacts before he manages to hit it. He waits for it to ring, his heart pounding wildly.

“Hello?”

Clint feels a rush of relief.  There shouldn’t be something that comforting about one word, but it feels like a lifeline to Clint.

“Sam?  It’s Clint — Clint Barton — Bucky’s...uh — uh, his roommate.  Something’s wrong, Bucky was asleep and now he’s awake but he’s — something’s _wrong_ .  It’s like he’s just staring, and it looks like he’s scared, and I dunno what to do, he never told me what to _do_ —”

“Clint.”  Sam’s voice cuts through his babbling, deep and authoritative.  “Take a deep breath.”

Clint pulls in a shuddering breath.  “I’m sorry. Can I touch him? I thought maybe I could bring him out of it if I touch him, but I don’t wanna make it worse.”

“First thing is, you keep yourself safe, okay?  It’s not gonna help either of you if you get hurt.  Understand?”

“Yeah.  Okay. I can do that.”

“Good, Clint.  You’re doing good.”  Sam’s calm voice is chipping away at some of Clint’s panic.  Goddamn it, he was a SHIELD operative for six fucking years, he needs to pull himself together.  

“Okay,” Sam continues.  “It sounds like he’s dissociating, or maybe having a flashback.  I know it looks scary, and it’s scary for him too, but he’ll come out of it, I promise you.  You can try touching him gently, or talking to him. Keep reminding him where he is, and who you are.  When he’s able, get him walking around, or see if you can get him to drink some water. Whatever helps ground him in the here and now.  Understand?”

“Yeah.”  Clint’s next breath comes easier. “Okay.”

“I’m going into a session now, but if you need me call and I’ll pick up. If not, text me when it’s over so I know he’s okay.  I’ll let Becca know. And Bucky should follow up with his therapist when he’s able.”

Clint is forcing himself to concentrate, impatient now to hang up and focus on Bucky.  “Yeah. Thanks, Sam.”

“You can do this, Clint.  I know it’s scary, but you got this.  Bucky trusts you for a reason.”

And, shit, Sam is good at his job, whatever he does at the VA and at Walter Reed, because Clint feels a hundred times more able to handle things when he hangs up the phone than he did before.

“Bucky.  I’m just gonna touch you a little, okay?  Just wanna see if I can get you back here with me, okay, baby?”  Slowly, deliberately he reaches out, sliding the palm of his left hand around the nape of Bucky’s neck.  Bucky’s left arm is against the back of the couch and still wrapped in the blanket, so Clint thinks he’s got a fifty-fifty chance of dodging in time if it comes into play, but he stays ready.    

Bucky is still looking in front of him — it would almost be better if he were staring vacantly, Clint thinks, but instead his eyes are darting around, terrified, so wide that the white is visible all around the irises.

Clint squeezes gently on the nape of Bucky’s neck.  “C’mon, Bucky. Just look at me for a minute, listen to my voice.  I want you back here with me.”

Bucky is panting in short, sharp breaths like he’s hyperventilating, his lips still moving from time to time.  It makes Clint’s chest hurt just to see his ragged breathing. He works his other hand under the blanket to rest on Bucky’s chest.

“Slow it down, baby.  C’mon, Buck. Take some deep breaths.  You’re here with me. You’re safe.” He rubs a circle, slow and firm, on Bucky’s chest, willing him to understand.

Something explodes on the television behind them and Bucky flinches — the first response Clint has seen to something not going on in his own head.  Clint curses, lunging for the remote and turning the television off. Jesus, he’s a dummy — he shoulda done that first thing.

“Hey.  Buck. C’mon, baby.  You’re right here with me.”  Bucky’s shirt is damp with sweat beneath Clint’s palm, and Clint works the blanket off his shoulders.  “You’re home. You’re safe. It’s —”

Maybe Bucky’s speaking louder or maybe with the television off Clint can hear him better, because he’s starting to make out some words.  Clint leans in, trying to hear.

“Get it off.  Get — get him off me.  I can’t move. Get him off me.”

His eyes dart down to his legs, and — fuck.  Lucky is still on Bucky’s legs, ears flat and whining.  Clint clicks his tongue and signals Lucky to his bed, and he leaps off the couch and scurries away.

“Hey, Buck.”  Clint pushes Bucky upright a little more, pulling his legs free of the blanket.  “You can move, okay. That was just Lucky, but he’s off now. No one’s on you.”

Bucky mutters something again and Clint leans in close.

“Alvarez.  It’s Alvarez.  Get — get him off me.  I can’t move. Please, please —”

And fuck, Clint’s heart is breaking.  He decides to take a chance, shoving the coffee table further back.  He reaches out and gets a hold of Bucky’s legs, pulling them to the side so he’s sitting forward on the couch.

“Here we go.  We’re getting up, okay?  You wanna move, we’re moving.  I got you, Bucky. I got you.”

Clint gets Bucky’s right arm over his shoulders, wedging his own shoulder in under Bucky’s armpit.  He grabs hold of Bucky’s arm with one hand and his waist with the other and shoves upright, pulling Bucky along with him.  

There’s a moment where he thinks Bucky’s legs won’t hold him and they’re gonna fall, because Clint is strong but Bucky is heavy as _shit_ , and off-balance with the weight of his metal arm dragging on his left side.

Clint keeps pushing up, though, and eventually Bucky’s knees catch, pushing him upright too.  Somehow they get moving, stumbling around the room. Clint is still babbling, telling Bucky where he is, who he’s with, what month it is even though he can’t for the life of him remember the goddamn date.

He’s so focused on keeping them both upright and moving that it takes him a second to register when Bucky starts moving more purposefully, bearing more of his own weight.

“Clint?” Bucky’s voice is breathless, befuddled.  It’s so beautiful Clint wants to cry.

“Yeah, it’s me.  You’re with me. We’re home, Bucky.  Are you with me?”

It takes a long moment for Bucky to answer.  “What’re we doin’?” he finally slurs.

Clint wants to laugh in relief.  “We’re walkin’,” he manages. He stops near a wall, setting their backs to it.  “Can you stand on your own?”

“Think so.”  

Clint eases himself out from under Bucky’s arm, holding him by the shoulders until he can turn and face him.

Bucky’s still pale, but there’s awareness in his eyes, mixed with confusion.  “Wha’ happen’d?”

“Not sure.”  Clint brushes Bucky’s hair back from his face and then rests his palm against his cheek.  Bucky leans into it, closing his eyes. He starts to list to the side, and Clint steadies him.

“Here — let’s sit down.”  They make it to the breakfast bar and Clint gets Bucky onto one of the tall stools, waiting at his side until he’s sure he’s steady.  

Bucky’s breathing is slowing down, a little color coming back into his face.  Clint leaves him long enough to get a glass of water and a protein bar, and then comes back to his side.  He steadies the water so Bucky can take a few sips, and then a few bigger gulps. He unwraps the protein bar too, breaking it into smaller pieces and giving them to Bucky one at a time.  

Bucky eats and drinks obediently, but still seems a little dazed.  

“You with me Buck?  You know where we are?”

Bucky nods.  “We’re home,” he says softly, but his words are less slurred than they were a few minutes ago.  “I dropped Steve at the airport this mornin’ an’ then I came home.”

“Yeah.”  Clint feels some of the knots of worry in his chest loosening.  “You were asleep, but then you woke up and you were — you weren’t with me anymore.”

Bucky nods, hanging his head a little.  “I was back in the ‘stan,” he admits. He pulls in a breath, letting it out in a long, shuddering gust.  “Jesus, Clint — I — I thought I was past all a’ that. It hasn’t been that bad since the first coupla months, an’ I was drugged outta my mind half that time anyway.”

His eyes are glinting with frustrated tears and Clint can’t stand having even an inch of space between them.  He pulls Bucky closer, up against his chest, and Bucky goes willingly, wrapping an arm around Clint’s waist.

“We’ll figure it out.  Maybe it’s just a one-off.  I mean, you dropped Steve off today, that hadta be hard.  And the t.v. was playing somethin’ with things blowin’ up all over the place.  An’ —”

Clint hesitates, unsure if he should mention the other pieces he’s put together.

“What?” Bucky asks, and Clint swallows, making up his mind.  

“Lucky was on your legs, pinnin’ you down. You said somethin’ about —”

“Alvarez,” Bucky says, his voice a dry rasp.

“Yeah.”  

Bucky’s hands are shaking worse than before, and Clint steadies the glass again so he can take another sip.

“It was just his — just part of him,” Bucky croaks.

“You don’t gotta tell me,” Clint says.  “Not unless you want to.”

“I know.”  Bucky shakes his head.  “You’ve never asked, not a single thing.  An’ it’s not like there’s much to tell. I don’t even remember the Humvee blowin’ up.  Just the pain. The pain, an’ the smoke, an’ the blinding sunlight. I was pinned under the vehicle, my left arm underneath.  An’ —” He pulls in a hitching breath. “Alvarez was on my legs, but he didn't have —"  He stops and swallows thickly.  "It was only part of him. An’ I couldn’t move. I just had to wait, and wait, an’ —”  The words stop, as if the well of them has suddenly run dry.

Clint is rubbing his back.  He steadies Bucky’s hands again for another sip of water.  

“I was the only one,” Bucky says.  “Nobody else made it. Most of ‘em were trapped in the gun truck as it burned.  Bajwa was thrown clear. He made it to the MERT with me but he died durin’ the evac.”

He leans his head against Clint’s chest again, as if getting out that much had sapped the last of his energy.

“Tell me what you need,” Clint says quietly.

Bucky is silent for a long time.  “I don’t feel clean,” he finally says.  “I wanna get clean.” His shirt is soaked with sweat, but he’s looking at his legs.

“I’ll run you a bath.”

Bucky manages the rest of the protein bar and the water while Clint runs the bath, taking a moment to text Sam the all clear.

It should be weird, helping Bucky into the bath, but for some reason it’s not.  Even though Clint saw Bucky naked for the first time just last night, this is as far from that as it could be.

Bucky stands still, letting Clint undress him like a doll, lifting his arms at Clint’s urging or holding up one foot at a time, a hand on Clint’s shoulder, so Clint can strip him of his socks.

He gets into the bath like an old man, like every muscle in his body is aching, and Clint guesses it probably is.  Bucky lies back, closing his eyes, letting the water come up to his ears. His hair swirls around his pale face, and Clint keeps a hand under the nape of his neck just to be sure he doesn’t sink too far.

By the time Clint unstops the drain Bucky is looking a little more alert but still exhausted, his eyelids drooping.  Clint gets him toweled off and into sweats.

Once he’s dressed Bucky sits on the edge of his bed, just staring down at his hands.

“I just wanna sleep,” he finally says.  He looks up at Clint, and the uncertainty in his eyes is heartbreaking.  “Think that’s okay?”

“I don’t know,” Clint admits.  “Does your therapist? — Sam said maybe you should check in.  Would she answer on a Sunday?”

Bucky’s brow wrinkles, and then clears.  “There’s a pager thing they do.” Bucky reaches for his phone, his movements sluggish still.  His thumb is too wrinkled from the bath for the fingerprint to unlock, and he laboriously types in his code.

He finds the name of his therapist, and Clint helps him call the emergency line, and type in his callback number at the prompt.  Sure enough, his phone rings back within moments.

“I’ll go grab you that sandwich,” Clint says, and Bucky nods gratefully.

Clint gets the sandwich, and finds a bottle of purple Gatorade at the back of the fridge.  He’s not sure exactly what will help, but the adrenaline rush has probably left Bucky feeling the way Clint used to feel post-mission, and so he’ll treat it the same way until he hears differently.  

He waits outside Bucky’s door until his murmured voice stops, and then knocks on his way in.

“She said it’s good to rest,” Bucky said.  He’s avoiding Clint’s eyes a little, and Clint doesn’t know if it’s because he’s embarrassed or just that tired.  “She said to try to keep my sleep cycle regular, but I guess I already screwed that one up, stayin’ up all last night.”

“You’ll get back on track.”  

Clint waits while Bucky takes a few bites of the sandwich before seeming to lose his appetite.  He manages half the Gatorade, but his eyes are starting to close, every blink longer than the last.

Clint finally takes the bottle and plate from Bucky’s slack hands.  “Why don’t you go to sleep now?”

Bucky nods, his eyes already closing.  “Will you stay with me?”

“Yeah.”  

Bucky scoots up a little in the bed, making room for Clint behind him.  Clint slides in under the covers, his chest to Bucky’s back.

He puts an arm around Bucky’s waist and rests his head down, just breathing in Bucky’s scent.  

“This okay?” he asks.

Bucky hums.  It sounds like he’s already drifting off.

Clint wraps his body closer around him, wishing there were something else he could do.  But there’s no way to protect Bucky from the horrors inside his own head, so Clint just holds him as tight as he can and watches over him as he sleeps.


	18. Aw, Assumptions, No

They’re both a little spooked by Bucky’s flashback.  Bucky’s discouraged, and Clint’s tentative, and it takes them a while to claw their way back to where they were.  

The one good thing to come out of it is that they haven’t spent a night in separate beds ever since.  Sometimes they crash in Clint’s room and sometimes in Bucky’s. Sometimes they fall asleep on the couch, watching mindless t.v. after a nightmare.  No matter what, they always wake up the same way, with Clint wrapped around Bucky like an octopus, grumbling into the back of his neck as the alarm goes off.

Today is a weekend, though, and they can sleep as late as they want.  Mid-morning light is filtering through the blinds by the time Bucky stretches, ready to wake up for good.

There’s also something he wants to talk to Clint about.  It may not be fair to ask Clint questions before he gets his coffee, but it’s tactical.  Clint doesn’t have the brainpower for anything except the unvarnished truth before he gets the first two cups in him, and Bucky can’t hold off any longer on asking.

He’s been doing a lot of thinking this past week — about the flashback at first, but then after that about his relationship with Clint, and what he really wants.  Because Clint’s been a little off since the flashback happened, and it’s making Bucky wonder. And part of Bucky’s wondering is thinking about how Clint took the lead the two times they’ve been together, and how it left Bucky feeling on the verge of overwhelmed.  

The more Bucky thinks about it, the more he’s been thinking about how he’d like things to go next time... if he’s lucky enough to get a next time.  So he’s been reading up, and doing some reminiscing about what he’s enjoyed in the past. Most of the women Bucky’s been with had just expected him to take the lead, and Bucky would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy that a little bit.  

He remembers dancing with Clint — how they both tried to lead at first, and then the little give of Clint’s body once he let Bucky lead.  How sweetly they had moved together with Clint taking his cues from Bucky. The more he thinks about it, the more that little warm flare of arousal at the thought of taking charge — at the thought of _Clint_ being the one who’s overwhelmed this time — seems to grow.  Because Bucky may not have a lot of experience with guys, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to show someone a good time in bed, and maybe it’s about time he proves it to Clint.

But first, he’s got to make sure that Clint is still in this with him, and that means asking the question that’s been lurking in the shadows of his mind all week and dealing with the fallout either way.  So Bucky pulls in a deep breath and turns around, smothering a laugh at Clint’s disgruntled noise. He can tell that Clint is mostly awake too, just reluctant to let go of the last vestiges of unconsciousness.  Bucky thinks that he can convince him, though.

He starts with a few nuzzles to Clint’s neck.  Clint sighs happily, tilting his head, but his eyes stay stubbornly closed.  Bucky works his way up, until he has Clint’s earlobe between his lips. He sucks on it, feeling Clint shiver, and then gives it a gentle bite.  Clint doesn’t like his ears touched when he has his aids in, but when he doesn’t they’re crazy sensitive and Bucky is willing to take full advantage.

By the time he works his way over to Clint’s lips, Clint is smiling goofily, his eyes slitted open to show just a sliver of the brightest blue.

“Good mornin’,” Bucky says, smiling into the kiss.

Clint makes a sound that sounds something like, “Mrrrrphghhhhh,” but he kisses back readily, his lips soft and warm and just a little lax under Bucky’s mouth.

Bucky pulls away and Clint chases after him, his reaction time just a beat too slow.  

“I’ve got somethin’ to show ya,” Bucky says, making sure Clint can see his lips.

He hands Clint his aids and then reaches for his phone, pulling up the screenshot he had taken earlier.

Clint fits his aids in and then looks from Bucky to the phone, his brow furrowed with confusion.  He squints at it a little longer, and then finally his face clears.

“You got tested too?”

Bucky nods and Clint smiles, that fond sideways quirk of his lips that he seems to save just for Bucky.  “You let someone come at you with a needle?”

And of course, even half-asleep Clint would realize how hard that part of it was for Bucky.  Clint had shown Bucky his own results a few days ago and Bucky hadn’t said anything more, worried that he wouldn’t be able to go through with it.  

“I was motivated,” Bucky says, trying to smile also but probably not managing to be too convincing.  He pulls in a deep breath, trying to keep his voice casual. “Is this what you were waitin’ for?”

“No,” Clint says reflexively.  And then, “Huh? What?”

Bucky ignores the flip of panic in his belly.  He talked this over with his therapist. He can’t assume the worst, just because that’s where his head goes.  He has to ask.

“It’s just that...you’ve been stoppin’ us lately.  When we do anythin’ more than kissin’.”

Clint is just watching, his brow still a little furrowed, and Bucky has to close his eyes to get the rest out.  “Are you maybe havin’ second thoughts?”

“What?”  Clint jolts upright, forcing Bucky’s eyes open.  “Jesus, Bucky, of course not.”

“Then why —”

“Fuck.  C’mere.”  Clint pulls Bucky in to his chest, arms tight as if he can physically keep him close even though Bucky isn’t going anywhere.  

“I just didn’t want to push, not while you were goin’ through some heavy shit,” Clint rushes to say.  “I was just waitin’ for you to be ready. Not — why would you even _think?_ —”

Bucky feels a little lightheaded from relief.  “I was kind of a mess there. I thought maybe after seein’ it —”

“That’s not gonna happen,” Clint says, the tone of his voice leaving no room for uncertainty.  “ _Ever_ , Bucky. Jesus, I just felt bad pervin’ all over you while you were struggling.”  

“I wouldn’ta minded,” Bucky said.  “Not after the first coupla days.”

“I’m a dumbass.  I shoulda asked,” Clint says with conviction.  “But you’re a dumbass too,” he adds. His big hand comes up to cup Bucky’s jaw, calluses rough and real against Bucky’s morning stubble.  Bucky goes with the movement, meeting Clint’s eyes, clear and blue and so sincere that they seem to pierce Bucky’s heart.

“Hey,” Clint says, his voice rough with emotion.  “You’re not gettin’ rid of me. _Ever._  Not unless you kick me out and change all the locks.  I’m never gonna go by choice.”

Bucky knows that promises like that can’t be kept, but somehow it’s still exactly what he needs to hear.  Clint believes it, and that’s enough.

It’s a little too much raw honesty for Bucky, though, and he hides his face in Clint’s collarbone.  “It’s your building,” he protests weakly.

Clint snorts.  “They all like you better anyway.”

Bucky snuggles in, just letting himself feel it — how safe and happy he feels with Clint’s strong arms around him, his broad chest under his cheek.  How much he loves this man, even if he can’t say the words out loud yet.

“What if I never wanna get rid of you,” he says instead.  “What if I wanna keep you forever?”

“Then that’s the plan,” Clint says, a quiet kind of awe in his voice.  “You got me.” Bucky feels the pressure of a kiss to the top of his head.

That warm feeling expands inside Bucky, until he feels like he’s going to overflow with it.  He squeezes Clint tighter, trying to be careful with his metal arm.

Clint hugs back, the movement pulling Bucky a little more on top of him.  Bucky’s thigh slides between Clint’s legs and the mood suddenly shifts, want twisting sharply in Bucky’s gut as he feels Clint harden against his hip.

Clint’s body underneath him goes from lax to taut in a heartbeat, the muscles of his belly contracting underneath Bucky’s palm.  

Bucky tilts his head up again and all the softness is gone as Clint kisses him again.  This kiss is hard and claiming, Clint’s hand winding tight in Bucky’s hair to hold him steady under the onslaught.

Bucky gives back as good as he gets, surging up, both hands sliding under Clint’s t-shirt to brush up his sides.  Clint feels all sleep-warm and rumpled, and Bucky wants to _ruin_ him.

Clint tries to roll them, but Bucky braces his left elbow, using the palm of his good hand on Clint’s right shoulder to shove him back down.

“Nuh-uh,” Bucky says, lips breaking free of Clint’s for just a moment.  “This time I’m gonna take _you_ apart.”

He can feel a moment of confusion, Clint’s body still tense under his hands as he tries to suss out the situation.  And it’s a thing of beauty how Clint suddenly relaxes, his whole body stretching out loose and pliant under Bucky.

“That’s beautiful, sweetheart,” Bucky murmurs.  “You gonna be good for me?”

Clint can’t hide it — the way his breath hitches at the words, his eyes darkening as his legs spread almost imperceptibly wider.  

Bucky makes no secret of how he sees it too.  “I asked you a question, sweetheart.”

Clint’s eyes are wide, that bright blue almost swallowed up by the depths of his pupils.  He nods, licking his lips. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Yes,” he says afterwards, as if he needs to make sure he got it right.

Bucky can feel himself smirk.  He tugs at the hem of Clint’s t-shirt and Clint’s body flows like liquid, arms stretching up as he uses the counterweight of Bucky on his hips to lift his torso up off the bed just enough to let Bucky strip the shirt from him.

The move shows his abs off to full advantage, and Bucky feels his mouth water, desperate to taste.

He looks up to find Clint watching him — his mouth lax and open, a flush on his cheeks that washes halfway down his chest.

Bucky presses his right hand to Clint’s cheek to see if he can feel that warmth.  Clint’s stubble prickles against his skin as he turns his head just the slightest, pressing a soft kiss to the center of Bucky’s palm.

The tender gesture pierces right to the center of Bucky’s chest, arousal and affection feeding off each other in some kind of strange alchemy that Bucky has only ever felt with Clint.

Clint stirs under him almost imperceptibly, and it’s only then that Bucky realizes he’s done nothing but stare for a long moment.

“Buck,” Clint rasps, and this time the press of his hips upward is undeniable.   _“Please.”_

Bucky smooths his hands — from Clint’s broad shoulders, down, down, down, metal and skin alike brushing over Clint’s peaked nipples, the ridges of his ribs, the dip of his narrow waist, the defined cut of the muscles in his lower abdominals.  He doesn’t stop until his hands are firmly clasping Clint’s hips, thumbs framing the bulge of his cock where it’s trapped under the soft flannel of his pajama pants.

“Don’t be impatient, sweetheart,” he chides.  He moves just his thumbs, a firm slide up the base of Clint’s cock through the flannel, just an inch or two up and then back down.  “You’ve made me wait all week. I think it’s my turn.”

He meets Clint’s eyes, making sure he has his full attention before continuing.  “How does that sound to you?”

He sees Clint understand — Bucky will stop this in a heartbeat if it’s not what Clint wants.  And even though the flush on Clint’s cheeks deepens, he clears his throat and forces the words out.  “Good,” he says. And then like he can’t help it, “Fuck, Bucky that sounds _so good_ , please —”

Bucky smiles, rewarding Clint with a firm stroke of his hand, feeling his cock flex upward through the soft flannel, pressing into his palm eagerly as Clint groans deep and low.

The sense of control hits Bucky like a head rush.  After a week of uncertainty, after two sexual encounters where Clint has done his best to make Bucky’s brain melt and Bucky has mostly just held on for the ride, now Clint is putting himself in _Bucky’s_ hands.  This time Bucky is going to be the one to pull those noises out of _Clint’s_ throat — make him shudder and beg, take his time with him until _Clint_ is the one falling apart.

“I’ll take care of you, sweetheart.”  He hardly recognizes his own voice, it’s gone so deep and rough.  “Now what do you think I should do?”

He goes back to teasing Clint through the soft flannel — cupping and rolling his balls through the fabric, brushing his thumbs up the shaft, watching idly as Clint’s cock twitches beneath the checkered cotton, a dark wet spot growing where the tip of his cock is leaking steadily.

“I could blow you,” Bucky suggests, thumbing the head of Clint’s cock where the fabric is damp and clinging.  He can feel Clint struggling to stay still beneath him, trying not to buck up into the light touch.

“I could get my fingers in you,” Bucky says contemplatively.  He traces the tip of his index finger down behind Clint’s balls, just pressing against his hole through the fabric.  It’s not easy to keep his own arousal from his voice, to keep up the impression of having all the time in the world, but the way it’s affecting Clint makes it worth it.  Clint is breathing unsteadily, a little whine escaping his throat as Bucky presses more firmly.

“Or maybe I could do all ‘a that,” Bucky muses.  Clint has his bottom lip between his teeth now, as if that will keep him from begging.  Bucky uses just the tip of his index finger to trace the outline of Clint’s cock again, rock-hard and thick where it’s distending the soft fabric.  “And then I could fuck you,” he adds, as if it’s almost an afterthought.

The words seem to hit Clint like a jolt of electricity, his whole body straining upward, pressing into Bucky’s casual touch.

“Jesus fuck,” he whines.  “Buck — Bucky — please. Yeah.   _That.”_

“That’s what you want?”  Bucky pulls the strings at the waist of Clint’s pajama pants loose from their sloppy bow.  He teases the waistband downward, a fraction of an inch at a time, dragging the fabric down the rough hair of Clint’s happy trail, over the wet head of his cock, down the rigid shaft.  “You want my mouth, my fingers, _and_ my cock?  Are you greedy like that, sweetheart?”

He feels a new tension in Clint’s body for just a moment.  His gaze darts upwards and sees just a shadow of uncertainty in Clint’s eyes, as if he’s worried that he’s asked for too much.

Bucky’s heart twists.  “Aw, no, darlin’,” he croons.  He stretches upwards, cupping Clint’s jaw to take his mouth in a soft, lingering kiss.  “You don’t ever have to worry. I love that you’re greedy for me,” he reassures, his hand grasping Clint’s bare cock, making him jolt again with a strangled moan.  

He kisses Clint again, quick and hard.  “I love that you’re askin’ for what you want.  Because you deserve every little thing that you want.”  He meets Clint’s eyes, making sure that he sees the truth of it, his hand working Clint’s cock in a slow squeezing slide that makes Clint grunt and buck underneath him.  “An’ I’m gonna give it to ya.”

He slides back, pulling off his t-shirt as he goes and throwing it aside.  It seems like ages since he was self-conscious about his damaged body in front of Clint.  Now he knows there’s gonna be nothing in Clint’s eyes except awe and lust, and he’s not disappointed.  

He pulls Clint’s pajama pants with him as he goes, pushing himself all the way off the bed so he can strip the pants from Clint’s ankles and then slither out of his own.

Clint has pushed up on his elbows a little to watch, and Bucky raises an eyebrow.  “Arms back over your head, darlin’.”

Clint huffs but obeys immediately, his impressive biceps flexing as he grabs the bedrails on either side of his head, and Bucky hopes they can withstand his considerable strength.

“Good.  Now spread those long legs of yours for me, sweetheart.  Gimme a little more room to work.”

He runs his hands up the miles and miles of bare skin, enjoying the scrape of Clint’s coarse leg hair against the palm of his good hand.  Finally he reaches Clint’s inner thighs, shouldering between to get up close and personal with Clint’s cock. He leans forward, licking the bead of wetness from the tip, considering the taste.  It’s the first time he’s had a dick in his mouth without a condom, and the first time he’s really had time to play — so far from the prior rushed blow jobs in alleyways and bathroom stalls he managed as a teenager or during his time in the service as to not even be in the same category.

Clint’s legs are trembling underneath his hands as he leans in again, sucking the head of Clint’s cock into his mouth fully, tongue swirling like it’s a lollipop.  He hears Clint’s shuddering groan, and it makes him smile around Clint’s cock as he sucks it in deeper.

He experiments for a little while — learning just how much Clint likes the occasional scrape of his teeth, or the lapping of his tongue just under the crown.  He knows he’s being too inconsistent, too changeable to get Clint off. He’s just exploring, and Clint seems to know it too. He shivers and whimpers but doesn’t ask for Bucky to go any faster, or to stop changing it up every time he gets close.

Finally Bucky pulls away.  He reaches into the bedside drawer, pulling out the lube.  He pops the top and slicks his fingers, Clint’s eyes on him the whole time.

“I’m gonna get my fingers in ya,” Bucky says.  “An’ if I do anythin’ wrong or anythin’ hurts, you tell me right away, okay?”

Clint nods, the pink on his cheeks deepening.  “I don’t — I don’t actually mind a little hurt,” he mumbles.

“Is that so?”  Bucky traces around Clint’s hole as he watches him, just testing the clench of the tight muscle.  “Well, maybe later I’ll give you that, but for now this is my first time doin’ this an’ we’re gonna go slow and careful, okay?”

“Yeah, yes, Bucky, please, just —”

Bucky interrupts Clint’s babbling by sinking one finger in to the base.  And, fuck, Bucky’s been trying to ignore how turned on he is, but feeling how hot and tight Clint is inside almost sets him off.  He wraps his metal hand around the base of his own cock, squeezing tight until he calms down a little.

He opens his eyes, not even realizing he closed them, to see Clint watching him, rapt.  

He pulls in a shuddering breath, pumping his finger in and out a few times, feeling Clint’s body twitch around it for a few seconds before relaxing.  “You feel so good inside, sweetheart,” he explains. He sinks a second finger in, feeling Clint’s body give so sweetly around the extra width. “Feels like you got a place just for me there.”

“Fuck...Bucky.”  Clint’s hips are moving restlessly — not quite so disobedient as to ride Bucky’s fingers, but not quite able to stay still either.  “I do — it is. Yours.”

“Fuck, but you’re sweet,” Bucky says breathlessly.  “Think you can take one more?”

“Yeah,” Clint says before the words are even finished.  “C’mon, Bucky. More.”

Bucky adds more lube, conscious of the fact that Clint is not the best about self-preservation.  He pushes back in with three fingers, and has to close his eyes against the sight, worried he’ll come before he even gets inside at the way Clint looks opening up around his blunt fingers.

The angle is different from when Bucky has tried this on himself, but he knows he’s got it just right when Clint _keens_ , clenching down tight around Bucky’s fingers as if to hold him inside.

“Is that good, sweetheart?” Bucky asks anyway, pumping his fingers slowly but making sure that he hits the same spot every time.

“Fuck, you know it is,” Clint breathes.  “C’mon, Bucky, I’m ready, I’m so ready, I wanna come on your cock —”

“Jesus,” Bucky breathes.  He pulls his fingers out. His hands are shaking a little.  

“You want me to wear a condom anyway?” he asks.  He’s been doing some reading, and found out that some guys don’t like the mess.

“No.  I want — I wanna feel you.  Come inside me.”

Bucky’s breath huffs out of him at the thought, and he has to shake his head to clear it.

He’s been hard so long his cock feels sore, almost tender as he slicks it with lube.  Then he’s pushing in, and in, and in, feeling Clint’s legs tighten around his waist, his whole body welcoming him inside.

He tries to start slow, but Clint feels so good — so hot and tight all around him.  Before he knows it he’s settled into a strong, vigorous fuck, and Clint is matching him, pushing up eagerly into every thrust.

He’s trying to keep his full weight off Clint, but with every drive forward he feels Clint’s cock sliding hard and wet across the ridges of his abs.  The scent of Clint surrounds him, clean sweat and that vanilla-woodsy smell rising from Clint’s warm skin. Bucky buries his face in Clint’s neck, breathing it in, lost in a haze of pure sensation.  

“Bucky,” Clint is panting, in between punched-out little noises every time Bucky shoves in deep, “Fuck, Bucky — I’m close.”  The bed is shaking, the metal clang a counterpoint to the soft noises they are making.

“Yeah.”  Bucky can feel his own orgasm gathering, tightening, from the base of his spine to where he’s buried inside Clint as deep as he can go.  “Touch yourself, sweetheart. Come for me.”

He feels the shift, the twist of Clint’s spine under him as Clint finally frees one hand from the bedrails.  There’s a moment of pressure on his side, the slide of sweat-slick skin against his arm, and suddenly Clint has one long leg thrown over Bucky’s shoulder, so fucking flexible that Bucky can barely comprehend it.

“Don’t stop,” Clint pants, and Bucky realizes that his pace has faltered.  He drives into Clint again, strong and steady, the new position allowing him to go even deeper. He looks down and there’s Clint’s hand wrapped around his own cock, long fingers and scarred knuckles sliding up and down as the cherry-red tip peeks out of the tunnel of his fingers.  

It’s too hot, too fucking pretty, and Bucky feels his strokes go erratic, desperate, as the pleasure screws tighter and tighter, his balls drawing up, sweat prickling all over his skin. Just when he thinks he can’t hold out any longer Clint moans, his whole body tightening up and then pulsing as his cock spurts, spilling over his chest and belly.

Bucky presses his forehead to Clint’s collarbone and lets go, feeling the pleasure rush up from his toes to his spine, pressing in deeper as the wave crests.  Clint is still coming, shuddering in a way that milks Bucky’s cock, drawing out his orgasm until he’s dizzy with it. The wave rushes over him and he’s left boneless, limbs heavy and languorous as he pants in open-mouthed gusts against Clint’s neck.

Bucky must fall into a daze for a few moments.  He blinks and realizes that Clint has both hands free now, running his warm palms up and down Bucky’s spine, murmuring some soothing nonsense.

It feels like an enormous effort but Bucky manages to pull free of Clint’s body gently, and then rolls to one side, still catching his breath.  Clint seems equally dazed, wide blue eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling, but his right hand reaches out, grabbing Bucky’s metal hand and holding tight as if he needs something to anchor him to the bed.

They lie there like that for awhile.  Bucky can’t feel the warmth of Clint’s hand but the touch sensors register the pressure.  It still amazes him how Clint doesn’t seem to mind the metal hand — hell, he might even consider it a turn-on.  It seems almost impossibly lucky to have found someone like him, but maybe Bucky and Clint have both had enough bad shit happen to them to earn that kind of luck.

Finally Bucky forces himself up.  Clint’s fingers tightens around his, tugging gently.  “Don’t go,” he murmurs.

“Just gettin’ a cloth,” Bucky explains, and Clint reluctantly lets him pull free.

He’s back in just a few moments with a warm washcloth.  Clint makes a happy hum as Bucky tenderly wipes down his chest and belly.  The cloth dips downward and Clint spreads his legs wider, letting Bucky swipe lower, gentle over his beard-burned thighs.

Clint’s whole body looks blushy, marked up by Bucky’s mouth and his stubble, the scrape of his chest hair and the grip of his fingers.  He’s fuckin’ _beautiful_ , and Bucky would probably stay there forever just looking, but Clint reaches out a strong arm and reels him in, pulling him tight up against his chest and snuffling contentedly into the nape of his neck.

“Sleep now,” Clint says, his voice already blurry.

“We’re gonna hafta walk Lucky sometime,” Bucky says, but the protest is weak even to his own ears.  

“He’ll come wake us if he needsta.  ‘S a good dog,” Clint says, and he sounds like he’s halfway to sleep already.

Bucky settles in, letting the haze of contentedness wash over him.

“Wait —”  He struggles in the clasp of Clint’s bear hug, turning to face him.  “Gimme your aids.”

Clint grumbles but lifts his head obediently, letting Bucky pull the hearing aids free from his ears and set them on the side table.

Bucky turns back around, relaxing into the curve of Clint’s body.  Clint’s right — the rest of the world can wait for a little while. Right now there’s no place else he’d rather be.


	19. Aw, Heatwave, No

Late August slides by in a lingering haze of unseasonably warm weather.  

Clint buys a few industrial fans to keep on the roof so they don’t all bake to a crisp during the Friday cookouts.  Simone gets that promotion to clinical nurse specialist she’s been working toward for ages, and Bucky bakes her a cake to celebrate.  

It’s such a hit that the residents of the building seem to make it their mission to come up with something that would warrant new cakes every Friday.  The birth of Grill’s first grandchild definitely qualifies. Abieyuwa’s birthday is also legit. Aimee’s purchase of a new basket for her messenger bike is probably stretching it, and when Clint overhears Deke and his new boyfriend arguing over whether it’s worth it to get engaged after only a month of dating just so Bucky will make another cake, Clint puts his foot down.  

He tells Bucky the residents are playing him, and instead of being angry Bucky is so flattered that he brings _two_ cakes to the next cookout.  Clint tells him he’s only reinforcing the bad behavior of the residents, and Bucky just shrugs.

* * *

Katie-Kate is getting harassed at her part-time job as a barista, and Bucky doesn’t find out about it until Clint comes home with a split lip and a gash across the bridge of his nose.  Bucky sits him down on the toilet lid and lectures him as he disinfects and patches up the little wounds. He meticulously applies a Wonder Woman band-aid across the bridge of Clint’s nose.  He’d like to think it’ll embarrass Clint, but since Clint bought those band-aids in the first place he probably thinks it’s awesome.

Clint sheepishly admits that although the split lip came from the harasser, the punch to the nose was from Katie-Kate for thinking that she can’t handle her own problems.  The girl wears some heavy-duty rings when she’s not shooting.

Bucky calls Clint an idiot a few more times, and then kisses him as gently as he can, careful of his split and puffy lip.

* * *

Bucky’s nightmares ramp up, and it takes them both way longer than it should before they realize that the dry heat is a trigger.  Clint buys a window unit and they run it full-blast at night, Clint wrapped up in blankets like a burrito and Bucky sprawled out in just an undershirt and boxers.

The a/c unit craps out in the middle of the night one night, and Bucky wakes up screaming.  Clint tries to fix it but after two frustrating hours he realizes there’s a part that needs replacing, and even New York City doesn’t have any 24-hour air conditioner supply stores.

He and Bucky hang around the apartment as it gets hotter and hotter, and Bucky gets twitchier and twitchier.  Finally, Clint hands Bucky his shoes.

“C’mon.  We’re goin’ out,” he says firmly.

“At 3 a.m.?”  Bucky frowns. “I don’t wanna go to a diner or anything, even if there’s a/c.  I’ll wait it out.”

“Trust me?” Clint says, and Bucky does, so he gets dressed, shoves his feet into his shoes, and follows Clint out into the street.

The subway is cool and empty.  Bucky still has no idea where they are going as they come out at the Fulton Street stop.  

They turn a corner and there’s a low, flat building in front of them.  The sign reads “Gotham City Archery.”

“Okay?” Clint asks.

Bucky feels his shoulders sag in relief.  “Yeah,” he says.

They bypass the main entrance, glass double doors closed tight with a dark foyer and front desk just visible in the background.  Clint pulls out his key ring and unlocks a metal door in the back. He shoves it open with a screech, and then flicks a switch inside.

Lights flicker on one by one, down the whole length of the building.  It’s cool and cavernous inside. Peaceful.

“You up for shooting?” Clint asks, and Bucky manages a nod.  His muscles are still tight, his nerves raw, but the idea of doing something physical appeals.

The firing lanes are less defined than at a gun range, but there’s still a row of targets along the back wall, even if they are archery bullseye targets rather than the human silhouette targets Bucky is used to.  Clint finds him a bow with the right draw weight, and sets him up. It’s different from the lesson Bucky got in the apartment, the distance much greater even if the form is the same.

Bucky feels clumsy at first, his movements jerky, his aim atrocious.  Within the first ten minutes, though, it starts to click. He’s not as smooth as Clint by a longshot, but he finds himself settling into a steady rhythm — nock, draw, and release; nock, draw, and release.  He feels a little jolt of satisfaction every time his arrow strikes closer to the target.

Finally, he reaches for his next arrow and finds only empty air.  He blinks a few times, and then releases his posture, feeling a pleasant ache spreading across his shoulders and back.  He feels calm, settled into his body again. He turns his head and finds Clint, his long body resting against the far wall in a casual lean, a soft smile on his lips.

Suddenly self-conscious, Bucky shifts the bow from hand to hand, looking at the target.  It bristles with closely-packed arrows, more than could possibly have fit in one quiver.

“You refilled my quiver,” he realizes aloud.

Clint approaches, talking the bow from Bucky and setting it aside.  Bucky realizes his right arm feels like jelly, and doesn’t object as Clint helps him pull the quiver from his back and unstrap his armguard.

“You were in the zone,” Clint agrees.  He moves slow but certain, his left hand coming up to rub Bucky’s neck and smooth down his back, right where he aches.  “Feel better?”

“Yeah.”  Bucky leans into Clint’s touch.  “It was just what I needed. How’d you know?”

“Didn’t.  Hoped, though,” Clint says softly.  “Works for me, some of the time.”

Bucky takes a step closer, pulling Clint into a hug.  He buries his face in Clint’s neck, breathing in his scent.  The lingering horror of the nightmare and the agitation it had caused him has completely dissipated, leaving only a calm sort of contentedness in its wake.  The muscles of Clint’s back are warm and firm, grounding him.

Finally, Bucky breaks the hug.  He steps back with a smile that he hopes lets Clint know just how much better he’s feeling.

“So, _‘The Amazing Hawkeye’_...wanna show me what you got?”

Clint’s answering grin is blinding.  He grabs his own backup bow from a locker and proceeds to dazzle Bucky with an incredible array of trick shots.  He’s sure and focused as he makes each shot, and adorably goofy as he preens whenever Bucky claps or whistles in appreciation.

And, yeah, Bucky’s easy for Clint when he’s like this — the muscles in his arms and back bulging, his hips twisted in an archer’s stance, showing off his lower abs to perfection.  Not to mention the absolute fucking marksmanship that hits Bucky’s competence kink in all the right places.

It makes Bucky wonder just how much security camera coverage there is in here, and how much trouble Clint would get into if Bucky pulls him into a dark corner and blows him at his place of work.

It’s Clint’s last trick shot that changes his mind.  Clint grabs three arrows, threaded between his knuckles.  He tilts the bow and fires them all at once. They hit the bullseyes of the target dead ahead _and_ the ones on either side, and _fuck_ but that’s hot.

Bucky doesn’t even take the time to clap.  Clint looks around as if checking to make sure he saw it, and then his eyes widen at the way Bucky is prowling towards him.

It only takes a moment for him to get it, his eyelids growing heavy as his lips turn up in a smirk.  “Liked that, huh?”

“Uh huh,” Bucky agrees, his voice a low rasp.  He’s close enough now to take Clint’s draw hand.  He holds it in his metal palm and traces over the fingers with his good hand — a slow glide from the pads at the base of Clint’s palm to his callused fingertips.

“Bucky — uh —” Clint starts, but Bucky ignores him, and Clint falls silent as Bucky unstraps the armguard and places a kiss, wet and soft over the slight mark it has left on his forearm.

Clint inhales sharply.  Bucky cuts his eyes up but Clint is just watching, his eyes dark, his mouth wet and open.  Bucky kisses his way down to Clint’s wrist, slow and careful, until his lips are pressed against Clint’s pulse.  It’s pounding as Bucky tastes it, feels the blood under the thin skin rushing against his tongue.

He holds Clint’s gaze as he presses one more kiss to the center of his palm.  Then he draws back just a little, and sucks Clint’s two middle fingers deep in his mouth.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” Clint says, soft and awestruck.  

The fingers in Bucky’s mouth twitch just a little, letting Bucky feel Clint’s calluses on his tongue.  He slowly draws back again, letting his teeth scrape just a little across Clint’s thick knuckles, the sensitive pads of his fingertips.

“I — uh —” Clint starts, and then stops again.  He’s just staring at Bucky’s mouth, as if Bucky finally broke him.

“Let’s get home,” Bucky says, his voice still deeper than usual.  “And you can get those fingers inside me.”

“Yeah,” Clint breathes, although he doesn’t move a muscle.  He blinks, and then seems to startle back to awareness. “Yeah,” he says more definitively, and then he’s swooping up their gear, getting it all back in the lockers in record time.

“The arrows,” Bucky says, and Clint casts a desperate look at the multitude of arrows stuck into the targets at the far end of the range.

“They’ll get ‘em in the morning.  I’ll apologize later,” he says breathlessly.  “Buck, come _on_.”

Bucky laughs at Clint but in truth he’s just as desperate.  They lock up behind them, and are both practically running by the time they get to the subway.  The earliest of the morning commuters are out, and Bucky stands against the wall on the train, too hard to sit down and trying not to adjust himself in his pants and make it even more painfully obvious.

Clint seems in a similar state, leaning against the wall opposite, his eyes glued to Bucky.  It’s only after the train gets going that Clint pulls something from his back pocket. It takes a moment in the flickering light, but Bucky realizes that Clint has brought an arrow shaft with him.  The little shit meets Bucky’s eyes, smiles, and then twirls the arrow shaft in his long fingers like a drumstick, and... _fuck_.  

He’s driving Bucky crazy and he knows it too, a mischievous gleam in his eyes as he spins the stick, and then twirls it so it dances down each long finger, one by one.  Bucky can’t tear his eyes away and from the look on his face Clint knows — he _knows_ — that Bucky is imagining those fingers inside him — how they would feel, long and thick and so fucking _dexterous_.

Bucky feels the back of his neck prickling with sweat, saliva pooling in his mouth.  Clint’s fingers curl around the stick, the tendons of his strong forearms flexing. Bucky can’t tear his eyes away, and he jolts in surprise when the doors open, Clint grabbing his hand and dragging him out of the car before they miss their stop.

When they hit the street, though, Clint heads the wrong way.  Bucky digs his heels in, stopping Clint by their clasped hands.

“Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?”

“Trust me?” Clint says again, and Bucky rolls his eyes but follows.

There’s a bored-looking teenager just raising the metal grille over the front of the hardware store down the street.  

“It’ll take me a few minutes to open the register,” he warns.  

“We’ll pay cash, and you can keep the change,” Clint says, and by the way the kid’s eyes widen Bucky’s probably glad he can’t see the denomination of the bill Clint flashes at him.

“Are you serious?” Bucky asks, but Clint is already diving down the aisle like he’s on a mission.  He waves the part at the kid, slaps the bill on the counter, and is dragging Bucky back down the street before he knows it.

The apartment is even hotter than when they left, and Bucky groans as soon as they step inside.  

“See?” Clint says.  “Sometimes I have good ideas.”

“You’re really gonna try to fix that thing first?”

Clint smiles.  “It’ll be quick, I promise.  Why don’t you go take a cool shower and I’ll be done by the time you get out.”  And...yeah, that sounds pretty amazing.

Bucky turns to go, but Clint catches his wrist, pulling him back.  Clint smiles, slow and dirty. “Wash _everywhere_ you want my mouth,” he says.

It takes Bucky a moment, but then his eyes widen.  “Jesus,” he breathes. “Yeah?”

In answer Clint just pulls him closer.  He kisses him hard and deep, as if demonstrating just how good it’s gonna be, and he’s making Bucky’s knees a little weak.

By the time Clint pulls away Bucky is a little bit dazed, and just stands there until Clint gives him a little push.

“Go on,” Clint says.  “Meet ya in the bedroom.”

Clint already has the unit going by the time Bucky gets out of the shower.  He’s just screwing the last panel back on, and Bucky flops onto the bed with a happy groan, letting the cool air rush over his damp skin.  The cool shower hasn’t done much to take the edge off and he gives his cock a few strokes, admiring the play of muscles across Clint’s back as he twists the screwdriver.

Clint turns around and damn near _staggers_ at the sight.  

“Startin’ without me, baby?” he says.  He’s probably going for teasing but it comes out a little too hoarse.

“You’re takin’ too long,” Bucky agrees, with another slow slide of his fingers up and down his cock.  He switches to the metal hand because he knows it drives Clint fucking _wild_ , and Clint makes a strangled sound.

“I gotta wash up,” Clint says, mournfully holding up his grease-smeared hands.

“Hurry,” Bucky says, but it still takes Clint a long moment before he can tear his eyes away and kick himself into motion.

Bucky hears the water running in Clint’s bathroom and imagines Clint soaping up those long fingers of his, the water running over his thick knuckles —

He doesn’t realize how close he’s gotten himself, metal fingers in a rapid squeezing slide over his hard cock, until Clint is there, gently pulling his hand away by the wrist.

Bucky groans, hips jolting up to chase the sensation.

“Shhhh,” Clint is saying, his voice as soothing as the cool air.  “We’re gonna take our time, okay?”

Bucky nods.   _Anything_ , as long as Clint just  _touches_ him —

And it’s like Clint read his mind, his fingers wrapping warmly around Bucky’s cock, taking over but slowing it down, coaxing him back from the edge.  

Finally, Clint pulls away, tracing his fingertips up Bucky’s belly.

“Turn over for me, baby,” Clint says, and this time it’s not the cool air making Bucky shiver but the low promise in Clint’s voice.

Bucky rolls over, hips on the pillow Clint has placed just right, too soft for him to really grind into.  

There’s the pop of a cap and then a little drizzle of liquid on his upper back that makes him worry that Clint lost control of the lube for a minute, but then Clint’s hands are there, smoothing the almond-scented massage oil across his neck and shoulders.  Bucky sighs as Clint rubs firmly, smoothing the last of the tension from his sore muscles.

The air is cool and Clint’s hands are warm as they make their way down his back, rubbing and kneading in smooth arcs.  Bucky feels himself falling into a sort of stupor, still aroused but in a slow, languorous kind of way.

“Spread your legs a little more,” Clint says, his voice a low rumble, and Bucky obeys unthinkingly, too focused on how good it feels as Clint’s strong fingers press firmly into the small of his back.  

Clint’s hands smooth over his ass and thighs in long strokes.  The pressure slides Bucky’s cock against the pillow, and he hums with the lazy pleasure of it.  Then Clint’s fingers are tracing upwards, slick and warm.

There’s another drizzle of oil, right in the small of Bucky’s back.  Bucky feels it sliding down, into the cleft of his ass, down to his balls.  Then Clint’s fingers are sliding right behind, teasing around the rim of his hole.

“You still want this?” Clint asks.

“I swear to god, Clint, if you don’t get your fingers in me —” Bucky grumbles.

“Just my fingers?” Clint interrupts, his voice rough and amused.  Clint slides down the bed a little and Bucky has the warning of a puff of breath just before Clint sets his teeth gently to Bucky’s ass cheek, biting just enough to make him squirm.  “Because this stuff doesn’t taste so bad,” Clint finishes.

And Bucky can’t help the noise he makes at that.  He had wondered if that’s what Clint had meant about the shower, but no one’s ever —

“Fuck, Clint. _Please,”_ Bucky says, spreading his legs a little more.  

And Clint may be in the mood for teasing but in this he’s merciful at least, sliding one finger in slick and easy, barely a stretch with how relaxed Bucky is.  He seems to be in no hurry after that, gliding it in and out, callused fingertip just skimming the edge of Bucky’s prostate, as the fingers of his other hand rub slow circles in the small of Bucky’s back.

Bucky’s just about to complain, just about to demand more, and then he suddenly jolts with the new sensation.  Clint’s tongue is pressing, wet and warm, licking around where his finger is still working, and it feels _incredible_.

Bucky mashes his face into the pillow, breathing in the scent of Clint on the linens, trying to muffle the sounds he’s making, but it’s no use.  Clint is _wrecking_ him, making tears prickle at the corners of his eyes, little grunting exhalations pushing from his lungs with every strong, sure press of Clint’s tongue.

He can’t help himself — he tries to hunch back into Clint’s mouth, but Clint’s grip on his lower back is implacable, holding him firmly, so that all he can do is _take it._ His cock is leaking steadily into the pillow, making it cling, wet and slick.

Bucky pulls in a deep, shuddering breath, and just as he lets it out Clint slides a second finger in.  The rest of the breath wheezes out of Bucky in a high whine. Clint’s fingertips are teasing directly over Bucky’s prostate now, a surprisingly delicate movement compared to the slow, firm, pumping of his fingers.

Bucky’s legs are starting to tremble.  Clint’s stubble is scraping him up, the sensation a delicious counterpoint to the rough, wet press of his tongue where Bucky is stretched around his thick knuckles.  The cool air is rushing across Bucky’s body but he still feels overheated, every nerve alight.

“Ah — fuck, Clint — don’t stop,” Bucky is muttering and Clint makes a noise of agreement, a low rumble that vibrates through Bucky’s whole body as Clint trips his fingertips across Bucky’s prostate.

That’s all it takes — Bucky is coming hard, ass clenching around Clint’s fingers and tongue as he grinds into the pillow, cock sliding slick and wet through the mess.  He makes a noise like he’s dying and maybe he is, shaking and trembling and crying out as Clint works him through it, fucking him with his fingers and tongue until Bucky’s just _gone_ , a boneless puddle.

He spends a few moments just panting, dazed and sated, as Clint rubs his back, gently easing his fingers free.  

“C’mere,” Bucky finally slurs.  He reaches behind himself blindly, managing to get a grip on Clint’s hair.  He pulls and Clint moans, following easily where Bucky guides.

Clint’s cock is hard and wet as he slumps over Bucky’s back, and Bucky wiggles just right until it slides between his thighs.

Bucky crosses his ankles, making a tight, warm space for Clint to fuck into.  “Go as hard as you want, sweetheart,” he manages sleepily, trying for a reassuring pat that ends up more like a slap to Clint’s ass.

Clint doesn’t seem to mind at all.  He rumbles again, deep and low, pressing his open mouth to the back of Bucky’s neck as he fucks his thighs, gliding slickly against the oiled skin.  Bucky sighs happily, enjoying the feeling — the contrast of the velvet-soft skin and the hard cock, the way the flared tip nudges his balls as Clint grinds against him.

Clint is huffing out soft breaths, mouthing at the crook of Bucky’s neck and shoulder as he shoves against him in focused little strokes that feel hard and selfish and so damn good that Bucky can feel his own cock twitching where it’s sliding against the slippery mess underneath him.  It’s so damn filthy and yet so damn hot, not having to do much except lie there, giving Clint a space to fuck into.

Clint is wrapped around Bucky’s whole body, and now his forearms snake under Bucky’s shoulders, palms bracing him, holding him in place against the force of his thrusts.

Bucky loves the way this feels — the way he’s cocooned by Clint’s body, so surrounded by him that he hardly knows where Clint ends and he begins.  He squeezes his thighs together a little more just to make Clint groan, and Clint’s rhythm becomes erratic, a last desperate flurry of strokes as he shudders and groans, breath hot against the back of Bucky’s neck as he comes.

Clint collapses on top of Bucky, dead weight that should feel claustrophobic, but instead makes Bucky feel safe, grounded.  

He gives Clint a few minutes before he tilts a little.  

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” he warns, and Clint grumbles but manages to slide off, flopping on his back.

Bucky sneaks a look and Clint’s face is utterly peaceful — his eyes closed, cheeks flushed.  Bucky feels like he’s frozen, stuck just looking at him.

 _I love you_ , he thinks, and maybe he’s close to saying the words out loud.  Someday soon.

“Thank you,” he says instead, and Clint cracks his eyes open.

“Huh?”  He blinks a few slow times.  “For what?”

“All of it.  Takin’ me to the range.  Fixin’ the a/c. Everythin’ you do.”

Clint twitches one shoulder.  “It’s nothin’.”

Bucky can feel himself frowning.  “It’s not nothin’. It’s —” He bites his lip, frustrated with his inability to express himself as much as with Clint’s automatic dismissal.  “It’s _everything_.”    

Clint seems to realize that Bucky is trying to say something.  He rolls toward Bucky, those blue blue eyes of his searching Bucky’s face.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Bucky blurts out.  And, maybe it’s stupid, but from the way the smile spreads across Clint’s face, slow and soft like a sunrise, maybe it’s not.

“Same,” Clint says.

And that’s definitely more feelings than Bucky can handle.  “Now go get a washcloth,” he says, pushing at Clint’s shoulder.  “An’ I’m throwin’ this pillow away,” he adds, throwing it off the bed with a grimace.

“Sure thing, Princess,” Clint says, but he’s still smiling as he gets a warm cloth, wiping Bucky off before he pulls him back into his arms.

“I got an appointment at the VA in a few hours,” Bucky reminds Clint.  “And you got a class to teach.”

“We’ll call in sick,” Clint says, sounding halfway to asleep already.  “Stay in bed all day.”

Bucky thinks about arguing, but to be honest, nothing sounds better to him than to laze around all day, safe in Clint’s arms.

He sends a cancellation text from his phone for his therapy appointment, shoving Clint’s phone into his hands as well so he can have someone cover his lessons.  Clint grumbles, but Bucky knows they better do it now. He can feel the edge of exhaustion approaching — a happy, satisfied exhaustion this time, and he knows he’s going to sleep deeply and well for once.

He plugs both phones in, realizing that his phone charger has been in here for a while.  Come to think of it, most of his clothes have migrated in here, too. Clint cleared out a couple of drawers for him a while back.  His own shower stuff was in Clint’s bathroom as well.

It happened so gradually, he had hardly noticed it — Clint making space for him in his room, just as easily has he had made space for him in his building, in his apartment, in his _life_.

He likes it, more than he can ever say.  Hell, he _loves_ it.

“Aids,” he says instead, and Clint sleepily pulls the aids from his ears and hands them over.  Bucky pulls the cover up, helping Clint wrap himself up. Then Clint pulls Bucky back into his arms, and finally they sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint teasing Bucky on the train is inspired by the amazing Sterek fic Finger Bangin' by hatteress (goddammitstacey).


	20. Aw, Natasha, No

Bucky’s hands clasp Clint’s hips, holding him still with a firm grip on the sweat-slick skin.

Clint’s breath huffs out in a soft exhalation, somewhere just between a gasp and a sob.  And fuck, but he’s beautiful like this, his whole body flushed from riding Bucky’s cock, his mouth kiss-swollen and his eyes wet with tears of frustration.

“Last time, sweetheart.  You can be good for me one last time, can’t you?” Bucky rasps.

Clint nods even as he unconsciously tests Bucky’s grip, little stirring movements of his hips that tease them both.

“Shhhhh…”  Bucky slides his hands up Clint’s back and down again.  He can feel the slight tremble in Clint’s body. “You’re doin’ so good, sweetheart.”

Clint’s eyes flutter shut at the praise.  He clenches around Bucky’s cock, buried deep inside him.  And fuck, but that’s good — the tight hot squeeze of Clint’s body so intense that Bucky has to grit his jaw against the instinct to just fuck up into him heedlessly.

But Bucky knows how much Clint loves this — losing himself to pleasure, letting Bucky draw him to the edge and then soothe him back away from it, over and over until he can barely think.  And Bucky loves it too — loves how Clint hands himself over to Bucky’s care, trusting him to make Clint feel good.  

“Perfect,” Bucky can’t stop himself from saying.  “You’re just _perfect.”_

Clint makes another one of those noises of pure wanting, choked and soft.

Bucky runs the tip of his finger up Clint’s cock, red and angry-looking where it’s pressed against his belly.  Clint shivers and squirms, and Bucky can tell he’s still right there, the way Bucky’s snugged up inside of him enough to keep him balanced on that knife-edge even without any friction.

Bucky’s right there with him, for that matter — it’s not going to take either of them long.  So he ignores the insistent throbbing of his dick and devotes another long moment to drinking in the sight of Clint, from the top of his mussed-up hair to where his strong thighs are trembling, clasped around Bucky’s hips.  

“Easy now, sweetheart.  Just one more thing.”  

Bucky leans up, Clint clenching and whining as the motion rubs him right where he’s hot and needy.  Bucky bites at Clint’s collarbone, sucking fiercely, deliberately leaving a mark.  

Clint is panting hard now, trying not to move, trying to be good, even though Bucky knows that the little bit of hurt is driving him wild.

Bucky leans back again, resting against the pillows with a satisfied smile.  He thumbs the mark he’s left, bright red against Clint’s freckled skin. Then he slides both hands down Clint's arms until he’s holding Clint’s wrists tightly, one in each hand.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he rumbles.  “Take what you need.”

Clint doesn’t need to be told twice.  He lifts up and then slams back down, using the muscles in his strong thighs and the counterweight of Bucky holding his wrists, riding Bucky hard and fast, canting his hips to get the angle just right.

“Jesus,” Bucky grunts out, barely able to hang on.  Clint is always good in bed, but most of the time Bucky can tell he’s got at least half of his attention on gauging Bucky’s reactions, so focused on trying to please _him_.  It makes Clint all the more fucking breathtaking when he’s like this, so far gone that he’s selfish in his need.  

Clint’s close, little overworked hiccups escaping him on every downstroke.  He can’t always come untouched, but Bucky knows he’s going to get there this time. 

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he urges.  “You’re almost there, darlin’.”

Clint sobs outright, flexing his thighs and biceps as he works for it, long past the point of inhibitions, free of any pretense of control.  Bucky braces his feet and shoves up hard into Clint’s next downstroke and that’s enough — Clint’s coming hard, back bowing, cock spurting, jerking against Bucky’s grip on his wrists.  Fucking _beautiful_.

Clint collapses onto Bucky’s chest and Bucky takes over, letting go of Clint’s wrists to grasp his hips.  He works him like a ragdoll, a flurry of thrusts to draw out Clint’s pleasure even as he chases his own.

Clint is hot and tight all around him, a heavy, blissed-out weight on top of him, like nothing in the world exists except them.  Bucky grinds up one more time, burying himself as deep as he can go, and lets it overwhelm him, growling out his release against Clint’s damp skin as the pleasure rushes through him, white-hot and so intense it almost hurts.

They lie there, wrecked, for long moments.  Clint squirms down until his wet face is buried in Bucky’s neck, his breath gusting against Bucky’s collarbone.  Bucky traces his fingers up and down Clint’s spine, soothing them both, the ridges of Clint's scars rough beneath his fingertips.

Bucky feels so good, his head fuzzy and his body languorous.  It takes him probably a bit too long to realize that Clint’s gasping breaths have turned to snuffling snores, his fucked-out pliancy now the bonelessness of a deep sleep.

Bucky’s still _inside_ of him, for Chrissakes.  He cards his fingers through Clint’s hair, and then gently pulls the aids free from his ears.  The man is a fucking disaster, and Bucky loves him so much he feels like he’s going to burst with it.

* * *

Bucky wakes in the night.  It’s not a nightmare for once — his or Clint’s — but now that he’s awake he’s aware of how dry his throat is.  But on the other hand, Clint is wrapped around him, so warm and comfortable. But then again he’s thirsty. He drifts in that liminal state for several long minutes before he finally pushes himself into sliding out of bed.

He scratches his belly idly as he makes his way into the kitchen, already filling a glass with water and gulping it down in his mind.

He passes through the doorway and is striking out before his brain even catches up with his body, processing the shadowy shape that is _in his fucking kitchen_.

The intruder grabs his forearm, blocking his strike easily.  Quick as a snake they leap up, legs wrapping around Bucky’s waist, arm around his throat.

Bucky’s heart is pounding, hands clawing at the forearm cutting off his breath.  He rears back, slamming the intruder against the doorway. The arm across his windpipe loosens just a fraction and he lurches to his knees, throwing the intruder off his back.  

They go flying, crashing into the coffee table, but the fall turns into a graceful roll and they are up again, the glimmer of a knife in their hand.

Suddenly, Clint is between them, naked as a jaybird, Lucky bounding at his side.

“Clint, _get back!”_ Bucky roars, terror like he’s never known gripping his heart.

“Nat, _stand down!”_ Clint yells at the same time, and everyone freezes except for Lucky, who rushes toward the intruder.

The glimmer of the knife disappears, the intruder straightening from their fighting crouch as Lucky jumps up on them.

Clint turns, putting his bare back to the intruder, and what the _fuck_ is he thinking?  

Bucky tries to grab him, tries to push him between himself and the wall, but Clint isn’t budging.  He’s looking up into Bucky’s face, brows knitted with concern. “Buck, are you okay?”

“Clint —” Bucky rasps, still trying to pull Clint to safety.  “What the fuck, _Clint_ —”

“It’s okay, it’s just Nat,” Clint is saying, and the word seems to process for the first time.  Nat — Nat is Clint’s friend, the one he talks about all the time. She’s trying to _kill_ him?

Bucky’s eyes dart to the intruder, and yeah — he sees it now, it’s a woman, slight of stature and dressed all in matte black tactical gear, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. Lucky has his front paws up on her shoulders, tail wagging as he licks her face in excitement.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Bucky repeats numbly.  He feels dizzy and shaky. Clint — Clint just put himself in the path of a _knife_ , and Bucky doesn’t think he’ll ever be over it.

“Here — sit down,” Clint says.  He pulls Bucky in the direction of the couch but that woman is still there, and Bucky digs in his heels.  The woman holds her hands up in a universal gesture of peace, and circles around, giving Bucky a wide berth as Clint drags him to the couch.

She moves to the kitchen, Lucky at her heels, and the light flickers on in there.

“Are you okay, Buck?” Clint asks again, and Bucky doesn’t even know how to answer that.  

Lucky pads out of the kitchen and pushes forward.  He leans against Bucky’s knee, licking his hand, and Bucky numbly pets him a few times.  Then the woman — _Natasha_ , Bucky corrects in his head — is standing there again, holding out a glass of cold water.  

“I apologize,” she says stiffly.  “You are sleeping with Clint? I didn’t expect it.  He doesn’t usually bring his lovers home.”

“ _Jesus_ , Nat,” Clint growls.

“I fucking _live_ here,” Bucky snaps at her.  He still takes the glass, though, sipping it slowly.  The ice-cold water grounds him a little, settling his stomach and easing his rasping breaths.

Natasha raises her eyebrows.  “You have a live-in boyfriend?” she asks Clint.

“He’s my _roommate_.”  

Natasha’s eyes skim down to the love bite standing out purple-red against Clint’s skin, and her eyebrows raise even further.  Clint flushes. “ _And_ my boyfriend,” he adds.  “He’s my roommate-boyfriend,” he finishes doggedly, glaring at Natasha.  “As you’d know if you hadn’t gone _completely fucking dark for more than twelve weeks.”_

Natasha shrugs her shoulders a bit as if dismissing Clint’s rebuke.  She shakes her head. “Little sparrow,” she sighs, still looking at Clint as if Bucky isn’t even there.  “When are you going to learn to guard your heart?”

And that is fucking _out of line_.  “Maybe he’s found someone he can _trust_ with it for a change,” Bucky snarls.

Clint and Natasha are both staring at him like he has two heads.  

“What?” he asks.  “If she’s going to be insulting both of —”

“You speak Russian?” Clint interrupts.  And — oh, okay, he realizes now that Natasha had said that in Russian.

Bucky nods.  Focusing on a detail like that seems bizarre, but then again maybe this is his life lately.  “My Bubba is from Zheleznodorozhny. I have a lot of cousins there and in Poland. I understand both Russian and Polish better than I speak it, but we stay in touch enough for me to keep up with it.”

Clint is smiling at him, soft and proud, but Nat just raises her eyebrows again.  “Anything else?”

And that’s it, Bucky is ready to kick her out on her ass, Clint’s best friend or not.  He pushes to his feet. “Yeah, I've been taking sign language classes at the VA, so if you think you’re gonna use _that_ to talk about me behind my back you’re outta luck there too,” he spits.

“Aw, baby,” Clint says.  He’s standing now too, and he wraps his arms around Bucky, pulling him in for a soft kiss.  “You have?”

“It was supposed to be a _surprise_ ,” Bucky grumbles.  It’s hard to stay mad when Clint is being so sweet.

When he looks up, Natasha is leaning against the wall.  To his surprise she’s smiling at them both, bright and happy.

“I like him,” she says to Clint.  “He speaks Russian and he can fight.”

“Still _right here_ ,” Bucky grouches, only a little bit mollified.

Natasha takes a step forward.  The smile drops from her face and she looks Bucky directly in the eyes.

“I am truly sorry,” she says, and Bucky grudgingly thinks that she  _does_ seem sincere.  “I always come here after missions, and let myself in if Clint is sleeping.  You attacked and I reacted. I thought you had a weapon,” she adds, with a flicker of her eyes toward Bucky’s metal arm.  “But I have no wish to harm someone who cares for Clint. I would like us to be friends. Can we try?”

She holds out her hand.  And, sure, Bucky is still grumpy as hell, but one look at Clint’s hopeful face and he knows he has no other option here.  He shakes Natasha’s hand, and she nods, sharp and decisive.

“Now, Clint, мой Воробушек, put on some damn pants.  And then get the first aid kit, I think my stitches just got torn open.”


	21. Aw, Coulson, No

“So there Clint is, wearing nothing but his socks and his quiver, trying to invent Portuguese by alternating between Spanish and Italian every other word —”

Bucky huffs softly with laughter, and Clint hides his smile by bending closer to where he’s finishing up Nat’s stitches.  

He knows what Nat’s doing, and Bucky probably does too — manipulation comes as easily to Nat as breathing.  She’s putting Bucky at ease, demonstrating her affection and care for Clint through carefully curated stories of their time at SHIELD.  Clint is just grateful she’s putting in the effort.

And, if the stories all happen to have the general theme of “Times Clint Got Caught with His Dick Out”...well, Nat knows Clint well enough to know that his dignity is one of the first things he’ll throw into the pot, meager as it is.

“So Clint goes streaking through the vineyard, the old lady’s attack dog hot on his heels —”

Clint finishes tying the last knot.  The muscles of Nat’s belly flinch as he applies antiseptic one last time, but she doesn’t even pause in her lazy drawl as she tells the story.

Clint packs the first aid kit up and takes it back to the kitchen to stow under the sink.  He strips off the nitrile gloves and trashes them, washing his hands. Then he pulls the bottle of vodka from the freezer and snags a couple of shot glasses, as well as a beer for Bucky in case he wants it, and heads back.

Nat has ended that story and started another.  Clint can tell by the easy look on Bucky’s face that she left out the part where Nat had to put a bullet in the dog’s head because Clint was too fucking soft to do it.  How they limped for miles, Clint leaning heavily on Nat’s slim shoulder, because the dog damn near tore out his Achilles tendon. How Nat lectured him the whole way, but then held his hand later when he had to get the rabies vaccine because as much as he’s been taken apart and patched back together over the years he still fucking _hates_ needles.

Bucky takes the beer Clint offers, popping the cap with an easy movement of his metal thumb.  Nat doesn’t miss a beat but Clint can tell that she’s watching, assessing the strength and dexterity of the metal hand even as she brings another story to a close.  Hell, he did the same when he first laid eyes on it.  

She reaches up and takes the shot glasses and the bottle from Clint, pouring his shot before her own.  She knocks the first back quickly and pours herself another, and that alone tells Clint that the mission she’s coming off of ranks somewhere above Budapest but below Hargeisa.  He lifts his arm and she doesn’t hesitate, nestling in close even as she knocks back the second shot.

And it’s Nat, so she’ll never ask a direct question.  Clint just tells her instead, starting with how he punched Bucky in the face and ended up asking him to move in.  Bucky’s eyes are still sharp but his body is relaxed as he adds his commentary here and there, and Clint appreciates how hard they are both trying to develop a truce after such a rough beginning.

By the time the bottle is almost empty Bucky’s on his third beer, and he and Nat are getting along like a house on fire.  It gives Clint a warm feeling in his chest to see them laughing together, the two people he loves the most in the world. So of course Nat has to go and ruin it.

She looks up, her light eyes snagging Clint’s gaze.  “He’s waiting for you to call, you know,” she says out of the blue, and just like that Clint’s happy buzz disappears.

Clint can feel Bucky’s eyes on him.  His skin feels hot and prickly, his stomach churning.  “He can wait, then,” he says curtly. “Maybe forever.”

“And how about you?”  She tilts her head back that way she only does when she’s dead serious, like with that little bit of distance she can see right through all of Clint’s bullshit.  “Can you wait forever?”

“Goddammit, Nat.”  Clint feels a rush of bile in the back of his throat.  “You haven’t been here — I’ve been better.” He swallows thickly, and then pours himself another shot, knocking it back just to get the taste out of his mouth, using the movement as an excuse to pull away from Nat’s slight weight against his side.  “I’m gettin’ better.”

“I can tell,” she says softly, leaning back against the arm of the sofa, curling her bare feet underneath her.  “I wouldn’t be pushing this if you weren’t.”

And that’s just — that’s a fucking insult disguised as a compliment.  Because yeah, Nat has seen him at his worst — and that includes the depressed asshole who took on the Russian mafia single-handed because he didn’t much give a fuck whether he lived or died.  But that’s not how he is anymore, and how can Nat see that and _still_ can’t cut him a fucking break?

“You shouldn’t be pushing it anyway,” he spits out.  

He lurches to his feet, head spinning for a moment.  Bucky reaches out for him but he shakes him off. And that’s something to feel like crap about later, he supposes, but for right now he feels like he can’t even breathe, an iron band tightening across his chest, his throat closing up.

“‘M takin’ Lucky for a walk,” he manages, grabbing the leash from the hook and shoving his feet into his shoes.  He doesn’t even bother to close the door behind him. Nat can get it on her way out, which he hopes is in the next few minutes and in the other fucking direction.

Lucky follows at his heels as Clint stumbles down the stairs, and waits patiently by the door as Clint takes three tries to get the hook of the leash snapped because his hands are trembling so goddamn much.

Then they are out and walking fast, Clint not even paying attention to where they are going, just trying to outrun Nat’s searching gaze.

_And how about you?  Can you wait forever?_

Goddamn her to hell, digging all that back up just when he had started to spackle over the gaping holes in his chest.

By the time the panic loosens its grip a little Clint looks around and realizes he’s at the park where he first met Bucky.  And, fuck, but he just _bolted_ , didn’t he, and Bucky must be worried as hell. He doesn’t even have his phone with him.

He sinks down onto the nearest bench and puts his head between his hands, trying to keep his breathing deep and even.  Lucky gives his chin a few licks and then settles down at his feet with a huff, probably resenting the interruption of his beauty sleep.  

Clint has been getting better.  He _has_.  He hasn’t really thought much about Phil or SHIELD in weeks.  It’s just that Nat caught him off guard, is all.

The panic seeps a little further away, leaving exhaustion, nausea, and a pounding headache in its wake.  It’s starting to get cold at night, and Clint is still in a t-shirt and pajama pants. He’s just considering forcing himself to his feet to start the trek home when he hears a deliberate rustle, too far away to be Lucky.  

He raises his head, the glimmer of metal catching his eye even in the dark.

A wave of relief washes over him, chasing some of the chill away.  It helps so much, just knowing Bucky is here.

Bucky moves closer, a little wary until Clint holds out his hand.  He grabs it tight, sitting on the bench next to him. He’s throwing off heat like a furnace as usual, and Clint can’t help but lean into it, whether he’s welcome or not.

“‘M sorry I ran off like that,” he mumbles into the shoulder of Bucky’s leather jacket.

Bucky slings an arm around him, pulling him closer.  “It’s okay.”

They sit in silence for awhile, Clint face-planted into Bucky’s neck, just breathing him in, while Bucky rubs soothing little circles on the nape of Clint’s neck.

“You wanna talk about it?” Bucky finally asks.

Clint makes a sound that even he can’t figure out.  “I really fuckin’ don’t.” He forces himself to sit back, although he still leans up against Bucky.  “But I’m starting to think that _not_ talking about it isn’t workin’ either.”

Bucky makes an understanding hum.  “It’s like that sometimes,” he says, and yeah — he would know.

Clint takes a few more deep breaths.  He tries to put a sentence together, but his thoughts feel scattered.  He has no idea where to start. Bucky seems to sense it, too.

“Is he your ex?” he finally prompts.

“No.”  Clint pauses.  Something about that doesn’t feel quite right.  “Or at least — it wasn’t like that for him. I mean, we never fucked or anything.”

Christ, he’s not making any sense.  He should probably go back to the beginning.

“I told you about the circus, right?  How Barney ‘n all framed me for that job that went wrong?  Put an arrow in my shoulder and a bullet in my gut, and left me in a ditch.  Didn’t care enough either way to even make sure I was dead.”

Bucky’s arm tightens around him even more.  “Yeah,” Bucky says. “You told me.”

“I was in the hospital first, and then the county lockup.  And that’s where he came to see me. Coulson.” Clint pulls in a deep breath that sounds shakier than he would like.  “Phil.” It’s been almost two years since he’s said that name, but with Bucky’s solid presence at his side it doesn’t hurt as much as he thought it would.

Bucky’s hand freezes where he’s rubbing Clint’s arm now.  “You — you said you were _sixteen_ ,” Bucky says, and his voice is soft but Clint can hear the quiet fury in it.

“It’s not like that,” Clint says quickly.  And fuck, how is he in the position of defending Phil Fucking Coulson?  “I mean, he didn’t — it wasn’t like that for him, not then. Maybe not ever.”

Some of the tension in Bucky’s frame releases.  “But it was for you?”

Clint’s eyes sting.  He blinks, tipping his head back.  “Hell, I don’t know.” He digs his thumbnails into the pads of his index fingers, trying to focus himself.  “He was a good man, and I hadn’t known many ‘a those before. He was smart — a good agent, and professional, but he didn’t look down on me even though I was just a piece of carnie trash. He was —” 

He thinks of Phil’s eyes, and his soft, even voice, and the way he had looked out for him.  “He was _kind_.”

He ducks his chin, trying to hide his embarrassment at how pathetic that sounds.  Like Clint was a stray dog, getting attached to the first person who showed him a scrap of kindness.  It’s a little too close to the truth. “It was just me ‘n him for a long time, and then I pulled Nat in, and it was me ‘n him ‘n Nat, and it was the closest thing to love I ever felt before I met you.”

Clint snuffles a little, wiping his eyes with his bare forearm, and then shrugs.  “I mean, who knows how much of it was fuckin’ daddy issues and how much of it was admittin’ for the first time that I was fuckin’ queer, and how much of it was just — just wantin’ someone to count on.  Knowin’ there was someone out there who wouldn’t screw me over, or let me down.”

He pulls in another shuddery breath.  This is the hardest part, the part that feels like a jagged knife being pulled out of his throat.  He squeezes his eyes shut tight and forces the words out. “And then he did.”

Bucky is suddenly very still.  “Did what?”

“Screwed me over.  Let me down. Whatever.  All of it.”

Clint feels a rustle beside him, and then a warm weight over his shoulders.  Bucky has taken off his jacket and draped it around him. He wants to object, but it just feels too good — warm and soft and smelling like Bucky.

“Hey,” Bucky says, his voice so gentle it feels like something inside of Clint breaks.  “Even if Nat knew this was eatin’ you up inside, there’s better ways to do this than backin’ you into a corner.  You don’t gotta tell it if you’re not ready, just ‘cause she she sprung it on you.”

“I don’t know anymore.”  Clint struggles to put words to the feeling.  “I’m tired. Tired of not thinkin’ about it. Sometimes I feel like I’m not thinkin’ about it so hard that it’s splitting my head in two.”

Bucky seems to consider that, his thumb still tracing gentle circles on the nape of Clint’s neck.  “Whatever you want,” he finally says. “I’m here.”

“I know,” Clint says, and he does.  Bucky is there for him, solid as a rock, and even as part of his brain screams at him that he’s making the same mistake all over again the rest of it knows that it’s different this time.  And maybe just knowing that is enough to give him the courage to tell it.

“Can we walk?” he asks.  He’s feeling a little restless now, and this may go easier without Bucky looking right at him.

“Sure.” 

Clint’s muscles are a little stiff and cold, but Bucky helps him to his feet, and gently takes Lucky’s leash from his clenched fingers.  It’s still an hour or two until sunrise, and the park is deserted — all black shadows and white streetlights. Clint shrugs his arms into Bucky’s jacket and shoves his cold fingers into the pockets, and they start walking.

“We were on mission,” Clint starts, eyes down as if there might be a landmine on the stone pathway through the park.  “Me ‘n Nat in the field, and Phil as our handler.” Now that Clint has started the words are spilling out, unstoppable.  “They were gonna get us, and I covered Nat’s retreat, tried to buy us some time. They got me. Had me for days — I dunno, maybe a week, maybe more.”  

Clint gestures at his back.  “You saw some ‘a what they did, and there was more — drugs, and no sleep, and whatever else they could do to try to get me to give up their location.”  He jerks his head upright, seeking out Bucky’s eyes. “I didn’t do it, though. I didn’t give them up. You believe me, right?”

“Clint.  _Sweetheart_.  Even if you —”

“I _didn’t_.”  Bucky has to know this, it’s the one thing Clint held on to.  “It’s just — I was hallucinatin’ pretty bad at the end there. I didn’t know what was real and what was in my head.  And then they — they told me —” He sucks in another deep breath, and it comes out as a sob. “They told me that I gave them up.  That I didn’t remember it ‘cause I was out of my head, but I did. They showed me — it was pictures — Phil and Nat, shot through the head, lying in their own blood.  They — they _thanked_ me for helpin’ them out, but I didn’t, I swear it Bucky, I _didn’t_ —”

“Shhhh.”  Bucky comes to a stop and reels him in and — yeah, he’s just babbling now.  He takes in a few more gulps of Bucky’s scent — leather and coffee, that old-fashioned shaving cream he uses.

“They were fakes,” he finally manages.  “Manips, or whatever. Hell, if I had been thinkin’ straight I shoulda known that’s why they didn’t show Nat’s face, no one ever gets a photo of Nat ‘less she allows it.  But I wasn’t thinkin’ straight, and I believed it. And then —”

Lucky whines, pawing at their knees.  Clint ducks down to pet him and Bucky goes with him, and then just like that they’re sitting on the ground, Clint half in Bucky’s lap and Lucky climbing all over them.   Clint swallows and gathers the dog into his lap. What’s a little dog hair when he’s probably dripping tears and snot everywhere, and Christ he’s a mess.

“STRIKE came, and got me.  Took me to med, and psych, an’ all the rest of it.  But somewhere down the line Phil decided that it might be better if they just kept it up.”

“I don’t — kept what up?”  

Clint focuses hard on patting Lucky’s ears.  “Just — kept up the idea that he an’ Nat were dead.  I dunno, somethin’ about he thought there might be a mole within STRIKE.”  The words even taste bitter as they come out of his mouth. “I guess maybe I wasn’t a good enough actor for him.  He thought I’d blow it if I knew the truth, so he just let me keep on believin’. Thinkin’ that I — that ‘cause of me they were both dead.”

“ _Jesus_ , Clint.  That’s fucked up.”

“Yeah.”  It helps, more than Clint would have thought, just to hear Bucky say it.  

“He had Nat on some new mission, and told her I was too sick for visitors, or whatever.  I dunno how long he was plannin’ on keepin’ it up, but Nat figured it out. Went AWOL and came an’ found me.”  

Clint pulls up the hem of his t-shirt to wipe his face so that he doesn’t get snot all over Bucky’s nice leather jacket.  “I thought I had finally cracked at first. Seein’ dead people ‘n all that. It took her awhile to convince me, and sometimes even now I think that maybe it’s not real.  That — I dunno — I’m still _there_ , and this is all some hallucination, or that I’m — that I finally just —”

Bucky is shushing him again, squeezing him tight.  And it helps, the firm pressure of his arms around him.  

“This is real,” Bucky says.  “It’s all real, sweetheart. They messed with your head, I get that, but we’re right here, okay?  You and me and Lucky.”

Lucky hears his name and chooses that moment to stick his tongue in Clint’s ear, and it catches him so by surprise that he snorts a laugh into Bucky’s shirt.  And maybe it’s a little bit hysterical, but fuck it — Clint is entitled.  

“Yeah,” Clint mumbles, wiping his eyes.  “I guess maybe a one-eyed dog french-kissin’ my ear is too much imagination even for me.”  He tries out a smile, and it’s probably not a very good one, but Bucky kisses it just the same, slow and careful to each corner of his mouth before kissing him soft and sweet dead-on.  His warm hand cups Clint’s cheek, thumb wiping away the tear-streaks.

And, fuck, there’s no reason Clint should be so lucky, but he’ll take it.  He’ll take it and hold onto it with both hands.

And on that note, he should probably stop making his boyfriend sit on the cold ground with his own heavy ass on top.

He gets to his knees, and then stands, offering Bucky a hand up as well.  They start walking again, heading for home this time. Clint feels things inside him settle a little.  

“I never meant to keep it a secret, y’know,” he tells Bucky.  “I just — I thought it was over ‘n done with. An’ I guess I was embarrassed about the whole thing.”

Bucky stutters to a stop, pulling Clint around to face him by their joined hands.  His eyes are a little wide, his jaw clenched, and for a moment Clint thinks he’s done something to piss him off.

“Jesus _Christ_ , sweetheart,” Bucky says, and Clint flinches.  But then Bucky is cupping his face again, pulling him close.  “There’s not a goddamn _thing_ you have to be embarrassed about.  Do you even _know_ how amazing you are?”

“Wha —” Clint tries to pull back, but Bucky’s grip is implacable.

“We’ve all been hurt,” Bucky says, the look in his light eyes seeming to pierce right through into Clint’s chest.  “But you’ve been hurt more’n most. Time and again, people have ground you into the dirt for no other reason than you lovin’ them.  Somethin’ like that — it shoulda made you hard, through and through, but it _didn’t_.  You’re still kind, and generous.  You got the biggest heart I’ve ever seen, an’ no matter how many times people have hurt you an’ left you an’ taken advantage of you, you _still_ put your heart out there.  You did that for me, an’ I’m gonna spend the rest of my life makin’ sure that this time — _this_ time — you get back all the love you put in an’ more.”

And that — that’s almost too much for Clint to handle, so big and bright that he has to close his eyes against it and just bury his face in Bucky’s neck.

They stand like that for a little bit, just breathing, just _being_ , and then Bucky gives Clint a little squeeze.

“C’mon, sweetheart.  Let’s get you home.”

And yeah, home sounds good, but deep down Clint knows that with Bucky’s arms around him, he’s already there.

* * *

EPILOGUE

There’s a chill in the air as the sun starts to go down, but Clint sprung for some patio heaters and Sam hauled them here in his truck, so there’s little pockets of warmth as Clint makes his way around the roof.  Even so, this is likely to be the last rooftop cookout of the year before the cold weather really sets in, and everyone has shown up to make the most of it.

Nat is here, bouncing Louis on her lap as she chats up a storm with Simone.  Things aren’t 100% between her and Clint yet, but he knows they’ll get there.  Nat is family, in a way that Clint’s blood family never was, and they’ll work it out.

Bucky made a special cake to celebrate the ring that Becca is showing off.  She wears it around her neck most of the time so she doesn’t have to take it off when she scrubs up for surgery, but she’s got it on her finger today.

Clint’s a little worried that Bucky might have a problem with it, cake notwithstanding.  It wouldn’t be the first time that Bucky had baked his feelings. When Clint sees Bucky break away from the grill and head for the edge of the roof he makes some excuse to Deke and his boyfriend and heads over, Lucky at his heels.

He snags two beers on the way and Bucky takes them both with an easy smile, popping the caps with his metal thumb before handing one back to Clint. 

They lean against the roof wall for a little while, just drinking their beers and watching everyone interact.  A cool breeze whips around the edge of the building and Clint shivers. Bucky leans closer, resting his arm heavy and solid around his shoulders.

Becca laughs as Sam comes up behind her and wraps his arms around her, lifting her up in the air.  Clint sees them catch Bucky’s eye, and that’s probably enough of an opening for Clint to check in.

“You okay with that?” he asks, jerking his chin in Becca’s direction.

Bucky furrows his brow.  “Becks and Sam gettin’ hitched?  Yeah, a’ course. Happy for ‘em. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Clint shrugs.  “I dunno. Never figured out exactly how you feel about Sam, and it’s a little quick, isn’t it?”

Bucky raises his eyebrows, looking at Clint like he’s crazy, and Clint feels like he missed something.

“They met the week we moved in,” Bucky says.

“Yeah? That was — hell, it wasn’t even four months ago.”  Whatever he’s going for, Clint isn’t getting it.  

Bucky seems to sense it, hip-checking Clint.  “Sweetheart, they’ve known each other just as long as we have.  An’ I already know that I’m gonna spend the rest of my life with you, so who’m I to say that they don’t feel the same?”

Clint feels his stomach do a dizzying flip.  It’s not just what Bucky’s saying but _how_ he’s saying it, calm and easy, like it’s just some universal truth.  His mouth goes dry, his tongue thick and slow as he tries to respond.

“Yeah?” he manages.  

“Yeah,” Bucky says.  He pulls back a little, his light eyes widening as his mouth turns down a little.  “I mean — I thought — don’t you? —”

“Of course I feel the same,” Clint rushes to tell him.  Fuck, he didn’t mean it like that. “I just — fuckin’ _hell_ —”  He stops himself, trying to gather his thoughts before he says something else stupid.  With Bucky’s support he finally got off his ass and got himself into therapy, and not acting reflexively out of fear is just one of the many goddamn things he’s been working on.  “I guess — I just never figured anyone would feel that way about me. Like, enough to be talkin’ about forever.”

Bucky’s eyes soften.  He ruffles Clint’s hair with his metal hand, and then pulls him back in tighter against his side.  “Alright then, Haystack. Guess it’s my job to spend the rest of my life tellin’ you so, an’ I’m happy to do it.”

“Yeah?”  Something is growing inside Clint, so bright and happy that he feels like rays of sunshine are gonna come bursting out of his fingertips.  “It’s a deal, Dognapper.”

Lucky yips as if he’s adding his seal of approval, and they both burst into laughter.  

“Yeah,” Bucky says to Lucky, ruffling his fur in much the same way he had ruffled Clint’s hair.  “You did good introducin’ us.”

And some of the people on the roof must have been listening in to that last part, because Simone starts clinking her fork against her bottle of beer and a few other people join in.  

Clint gets over his shyness and looks at Bucky, just drinking him in for a moment, from his beautiful eyes to his flushed cheeks to the tender smile on his face.  Whatever he sees on Clint’s face makes Bucky duck his chin shyly, his hair falling over his forehead. The love of his fuckin’ _life_ , and Clint doesn’t know how he got so lucky, but he’s more than willing to spend the rest of his life wondering.

Bucky’s soft smile turns into a wide grin.  “Gotta give the people what they want,” he says before he leans in, kissing Clint soft and deep and thorough as their friends and neighbors cheer.


End file.
